


But Gently Pulls the Strings

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Arranged Marriage, Bathing/Washing, Betrayal, Blackmail, Bottom Sam, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Execution, Exhibitionism, F/M, Harlequin, Historical Fantasy, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, No Lube, Romance, Secret Relationship, Top Dean, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 85,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Royalty AU. When the Queen of Winchester finds herself unable to produce an heir for the kingdom, her ensuing plot results in two boys being born in secret and raised as companions—the elder, a prince, and the younger, a simple commoner. Unaware of their shared parentage, Dean Winchester and Sam Campbell grow up to fall deeply in love, keeping their affair hidden from the gossiping mouths of the court. But when it comes time for Dean to choose a spouse, the lovers are forced to contend with not only the weight of their scandalous past, but also Lucifer, the sinister archduke vying for Sam’s hand in marriage…and Dean’s rightful place on the throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Once upon a time…there was a proud and prosperous kingdom. And this kingdom was ruled by a king who was perhaps equally proud, but also strong and fair-minded. King John of Winchester was known throughout the lands, not only for his prowess in battle—for he had served a time in the wars, in great defense of his people—but also for his skill in governing. Aided by his advisors, John led the kingdom of Winchester into a long and glorious age of peace and good fortune. But despite the king’s political expertise, and his increasing years, he had yet to take a spouse. As great kings often do, John had a particular quirk to ruffle the edges of his otherwise smooth reign. He insisted on marrying for love.

At first, his court agreed whole-heartedly, thinking that a loving marriage was a reasonable request for such a fair king, but John was never appeased by any of the princesses laid out before him. He spoke to each of them in turn, and then declared every maiden unfit to be his queen, as he did not love a single one. The court became a hair unsettled at the king’s overarching dismissal, but did their best to please him. They reached out further, sought girls of noble blood from far beyond the kingdom’s borders. They brought John princesses from across the Indigo Sea and plucked straight from the sands of the swirling deserts. But the king remained unmoved. The court tore at their hair and provided him with a parade of duchesses and marchionesses. Women who were perhaps lower in standing than what they ought to be for the wife of a king, but royal enough that the discrepancy could be overlooked. But still John rejected every option. The court wept tears of frustration and threw together a harem of the most suitable _princes_ they could find—but it only took a single, flat stare from their king to go back to fruitlessly sifting through women.

During the long and unsuccessful search, unrest began to grow in the neighboring realms. Whispers of war started to surface again as nobles vied among themselves for succession rights and a sense of gnawing fear spread throughout the land. If the king never took a bride, then there would never be an heir. With no one of royal blood to reign over the kingdom, the crown could easily be usurped by a crusading tyrant. And one of the closest in line for the throne was a particularly cold-hearted archduke by the name of Lucifer. The infamous nobleman ruled his province of Ifreann with an iron fist, and the tales of his savagery in the wars were as awe-inspiring as they were terrifying. If Lucifer turned an eye towards Winchester once more, a legitimate heir would be the only thing that could stop his advance.

King John’s court pleaded with him once they’d heard the rumors. They apologized that they weren’t able to provide a queen to his liking, but begged him to think of the safety of his kingdom. And as John was a righteous king, he agreed to a marriage of political convenience. He assumed that, given the overwhelming evidence, perhaps love wasn’t in the Lord’s plan for him, and he abandoned his romantic quest in favor of the wellbeing of his people.

But Lucifer was already champing at the bit for a chance at the crown and as soon as John made his announcement, the Archduke of Ifreann provided his own recommendation for John’s bride—Lilith, a distant cousin of Lucifer’s and a duchess in her own right. Uneasy at the thought of what an Ifreann queen would mean for his kingdom (and well aware that any relation of Lucifer’s would be a conduit straight to the archduke himself), John immediately sent word that he had already chosen a wife. A shrewdly intelligent and highly respected princess from one of their other allied lands. However, to preserve the fragile diplomacy between Winchester and Ifreann, the king insisted that Lilith was his emphatic second choice, if the need ever arose.

John’s ensuing marriage quickly bolstered peace throughout the surrounding kingdoms and put a damper on any and all thoughts of rebellion. And there would be no need to worry about Winchester’s future—the king and queen assured all who would ask—because an heir was on the way.

But the months rolled by and the queen never swelled with child. Anxiety started to brew again as John frantically took counsel with his advisors for a solution to the problem. The queen met with the most skilled and trusted physicians in the land, and every one whispered the same thing in remorseful tones, that the queen didn’t have the right constitution to bear children. She had been ill in her youth, a malady that she had eventually recovered from, but one which left its indelible mark on her womb, and no amount of praying or begging would provide them the heir they needed. The doctors were sworn to absolute secrecy, on their lives, and John sent them all away. The expected course of action would be for the king to take a consort—a woman of royal blood who could birth him an heir—but due to John’s own earlier promises, the only possible option would be the Duchess of Ifreann. And taking Lilith as his queen consort would be tantamount to granting Lucifer an even greater foothold in line to the Winchester throne.

Thankfully, the queen was still as keen and wise as she had ever been and proposed an ingenious solution to their problem. They would hire a girl of common blood, one with no right to the crown who couldn’t tangle any succession lines with her parentage. They would reward her handsomely, give her a place among the castle staff, and have the king impregnate her in secret. No one would think twice about a servant girl carrying a child, and the queen could pad her garments at the same time—leading all to believe that _she_ was the one expecting. They celebrated at the queen’s quick thinking and immediately asked the most trusted member of John’s court, a scholar by the name of Bobby Singer, to find them a suitable candidate. And swift as the arrow flies, he returned from his search with wondrous news. He had found a commonblood girl from a long line of renowned game hunters. Her family was known for their physical fortitude and for their loyalty to the crown, and she would be the perfect maiden to secretly provide Winchester with a strong and healthy heir. The king and queen were overjoyed at the description and agreed to meet with Mary Campbell immediately.

And as such things always happen in stories like this…John instantly fell in love with the girl at first sight. Mary returned his affections just as ardently, and King John had to laugh at the Heavens, for he had finally found his soulmate in the most unexpected way possible.

Mary quickly became heavy with child—it was a surprise she was only carrying the _one_ , given the way her and John would run off together at any and every available opportunity—and the queen acted the part in front of all the rest of the kingdom. Her plan worked perfectly and in nine month’s time, the kingdom had an heir. A healthy, newborn prince by the name of Dean.

Pleased with their successful charade, the queen urged John to send Mary back to her village. To ‘take care’ of the imaginary child that they swore she had delivered at home. But the besotted king could not. He doted on Mary in secret, playing the part of the respectable husband before the court, but completely devoted to his actual love behind closed doors. And Mary fawned over Dean in turn, lavishing the young prince with every bit of maternal kindness she could get away with and quickly becoming a second mother to the boy.

Despite the queen’s continuing cautions, John and Mary could not cool their more arduous passions and in a little over three years’ time, she became pregnant with a second child. The queen again pleaded—for she was a very wise woman—that they send Mary away before any of the court became suspicious at _two_ concurrent pregnancies (and two absent children), but the king debated the issue with his wife, convincing her that another healthy heir would bring stability and peace of mind to the kingdom, further cementing their harmonious rule and protecting Winchester from the clutches of Lucifer. The queen grudgingly agreed, despite her concerns, and they began the pretense all over again.

The kingdom rejoiced at the news of Winchester’s second progeny and all was well for a time. Dean was particularly excited at the announcement, insisting that he would love Mary’s unborn child with just as much fervor as his actual sibling. But tragedy struck, as it is wont to do, and the queen took ill only six months into Mary’s pregnancy. Assuming that the queen’s extended battle with her childhood affliction had left her weakened, John again sent for the best doctors in all of the land—ones that could be trusted with the queen’s secret—but it was to no avail. She soon passed away in her sleep, and the king became a widower.

John threw all of his energy into the rest of his family, turning away from matters of state so that he and Dean could spend as much time with Mary as possible. Now that the queen had died, there was no possible way for him to claim the new baby as his own. It would be born a commoner, a Campbell, but John swore to himself that he would treat it with the utmost care and love so that it would never feel fatherless. Dean also seemed to pin his attentions on Mary’s swollen belly, stockpiling all of the affection he wasn’t able to give to the queen’s child and redirecting it towards Mary’s instead.

But misfortune reared its head again and Mary also suddenly became ill, late into her last month of pregnancy. John flew into a rage, cursing the skies at the string of bad luck and pleading with the Lord to spare his love the same fate as his wife. Mary went into labor with a whispered promise to the king that she’d be fine, and John spent the next two days roaming the halls like a man possessed. On the second evening, his royal advisor, Azazel, approached him with the grim news. Mary had given birth to a healthy baby boy, but did not survive the ordeal herself. Dean cried inconsolably, even harder than at the news of his own mother’s death, and John felt his entire world suddenly go colorless. He stepped into Mary’s bedchamber, alone, and took one moment to hold his second son in his arms before he was forced to renounce the babe forever. John passed Samuel, named for Mary’s late father, to Bobby Singer with fierce instructions to care for the child as if it were his own. The scholar swore on his life that he would…and time went on.

The king gradually became cold and withdrawn at the loss of his love. He spent long hours hunting game in the forests bordering his castle in an attempt to keep Mary alive in his heart and to honor her family’s memory. He attended to his sons, both of them, as best he could, but suffered in his grief.

Dean, on the other hand, flourished with Sam at his side. Bobby raised the boy alongside the prince—under John’s watchful eye, if not his name—and played tutor to both of the youths. They roamed the castle as delightful terrors, mischievous and quick-witted under Bobby’s tutelage, and strong and agile under the king’s enforced combat training—as John secretly hoped that an active constitution would protect the both of them from their mother’s fate. The two were as thick as thieves, preferring to spend every available moment of their time in each other’s company. They even had (due to a healthy amount of wheedling and prodding on both of their parts) adjoining rooms, and when Sam accidentally discovered a hidden door linking their chambers one night—for the castle was old and mysterious and had such things—their revelries began to continue well into the evening hours, unseen by others’ eyes.

As the years passed and the boys grew older, their shared affection only became stronger. John nurtured the companionship at every turn, as it did his heart well to see his sons getting along, even if they remained blind to their true lineage. But Sam and Dean’s childlike attachment to one another slowly bloomed into something stronger as they reached the cusp of manhood. Dean grew into the very epitome of a classically handsome prince, with eyes as clear and green as a summer stream, and a fair countenance that turned every head whenever he ventured into the nearby villages. He became a skilled horseman and the most adept hunter in all the land (of beasts and of nubile, young things), with a violently charming smile and strict sense of duty to his kingdom and his people. Sam, however, matured into a quieter sort, using a soft temperament and a sharp mind to hide his underlying strength and skill with a blade—as he studied weaponry with just as much fervor as he reserved for his books. He had, in turn, grown into a tall, strapping young man with a mess of chestnut hair, a stubborn streak a meter wide, and a slanted, foxlike gaze that seemed to only fixate on Dean.

Their first nervous fumbles were innocuous, borne out of kinship and curiosity. The subsequent explorations were not. Just a few mere touches had lit a flame in each of them that no seductive courtesan or dashing knight could quench. Their passion grew deeper as time went on, curled its roots through the foundation of their shared childhood and tied them together with a love that defied description. No two paramours had ever been as devoted, had ever been as true, and they showered each other with gentle words and tender caresses whenever they had a quiet moment.

Unfortunately, they were forced to keep their amorous intent to the privacy of their connected chambers. Dean, as he knew that marrying a commoner would cast shame upon the royal line. And Sam, as he did not want to bring the wrath of the king—who had always treated him like a second son—down upon his head. The two young men carried on in this fashion for the next few summers, lovers in secret and close companions before the rest of the world…until Dean’s twenty-fifth year.

The prince was well past the age of taking a spouse and the kingdom of Winchester began to worry that he had inherited his father’s propensity for fickleness. Dean, for his part, continued to reinforce his people’s fears at every turn, sending away suitor after suitor—princes and princesses alike—with no explanation other than that he would not wed. Month after month, Dean managed to put off the inevitable until the king was finally forced to step in. Concerned about his nation’s welfare, John regretfully gave his son an ultimatum—he would agree to a suitable spouse before his twenty-sixth birthday…or one would be chosen for him.

 


	2. Consort

Sam twists his wrist sharply on the release, flinging a pebble into the rushing stream and enjoying the dark satisfaction he feels at the pathetic plunking sound it makes. Any half-addled schoolchild could tell you that rocks can’t actually breathe, but there’s a petty comfort in imagining that the stones are drowning just as much as he is. That they’re scrabbling for air as the entire universe conspires to suffocate them slowly. Sam sighs at his own macabre daydreams and kicks at the surface of the water with the toe of his boot. He isn’t this sadistic, usually. Must be the extenuating circumstances.

“There you are, Sammy!” a cheerful voice calls out from behind him, and then the object of his sullen musings comes clambering over the riverbank. “I had to bribe the gatekeeper to find out where you’d gone this morning.”

“No one calls me that,” Sam says sourly, turning back to the babbling stream.

“What, ‘Sammy’?” Dean tosses back without a second thought. “ _I_ call you that.” His boots slip a little on the mud of the grassy knoll, but he quickly rights himself with an infuriating amount of grace, easily making his way over to Sam’s side. “My father does as well.”

“Your father is the _king_ ,” Sam points out. “If I refused a nickname, he could have my head for his wall.”

“I could probably have your head for my wall too,” Dean insists childishly. “If I wanted it.”

Sam snorts and tosses another rock into the water. “You have better uses for my head.”

The prince chuckles at the insinuation. “Usually,” he agrees. “But right now it seems to be set on glaring at that poor brook until it dries up.”

“Why are you here, Dean?” Sam asks curtly, cutting his lover off before he can taunt him any further. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time? And more important people to spend it with?”

Dean grins and slips a shameless finger into the waistband of Sam’s trousers, attempting to hook him closer. “Do I need a reason to seek out the pleasure of your company?” he purrs under his breath.

“Usually, no.” Sam wriggles away from the playful touch, intent as he is on wallowing in his martyred misery. “But I figured you’d be waist-deep in marriage proposals by now.”

“I was.”

 _Was_. It must be finalized then. Sam boils in his own skin. “Extend my congratulations to the lucky princess,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

Dean just laughs at his obvious pain. It’s unbearably rude. If he wasn’t royalty, Sam would box him on the ear. Actually, if he keeps it up, Sam might just do so anyway, blue blood or no. “There is no princess,” Dean says, finally taking pity on him.

“ _Prince_ then,” Sam spits tightly.

“Nope.”

Sam blinks at the information, then furrows his brow in frustration. “If you are intent on teasing me just for sport, I swear I will push you into this river. Who is your blushing new fiancé then? A duchess? A marquis?”

Dean presses his fingertips to Sam’s lips before he can work himself up into a fury. “No one,” he says calmly. “I’m still a free man. _Well_ ,” he corrects himself with a slight tilt of his head, “for the moment, at least.”

“…I don’t understand,” Sam mumbles around the fingers still shoved against his mouth.

“I had a brilliant revelation.”

Sam just raises an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

Dean slips his hand away, only to replace it with a hard kiss. “Yes, I did.”

There’s a long stretch of silence as Sam awaits the promised brilliance. “Are you going to tell me what it is,” he asks dryly, “or is this part of the torture?”

Dean just smirks in response. “ _You_.”

“Me, what?”

His lover rolls his eyes. “The answer is you,” he clarifies. “My father wants me to pick a fiancé by my birthday? Done. It’s you.”

Sam stares at the prince for a blank moment, then tosses his hands into the air at the man’s utter foolishness. “Dean, that’s ridiculous. The king would never stand for it. Honestly, did you come up with that plan last night in your dreams? Did a mermaid astride a unicorn tell you it was a good idea?”

“Don’t be glib,” Dean grumbles. “It suits you far too well.” Then he smacks the back of his hand against Sam’s chest. “Plus, even if I _did_ dream it, how would I know? You always drag me awake at the break of dawn and shove me out of bed.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Your Royal Highness,” Sam simpers facetiously. “You would prefer your attendants to discover an empty room and the prince in _my_ chambers instead?”

Dean grins at the easy bait, finally reaching out and manhandling Sam into his arms until his chest is pressed up snug against the curve of Sam’s back. “Yes,” he whispers honestly, dropping a kiss to the slope of his shoulder. “I would.”

Sam can’t help but let out an instinctive sigh of relief at the touch, content as he is in the familiar embrace. “Ah,” he says bitterly, “if only the kingdom wouldn’t fall into chaos at the very notion.” There’s a hint of pained truth to his jest and Sam feels a pang of regret at the knowledge that Dean has most likely already picked up on it.

The prince doesn’t say a word though, happy to simply massage his fingers over Sam’s biceps and stare out at the secluded stream for a few moments. _Their_ stream. Has been for years. “…This is where I first made love to you,” Dean blurts out completely inappropriately. “Do you remember?”

Sam feels himself go as red as one of Ellen’s stewed tomatoes. “I know that and you know that,” he hisses under his breath, shifting in his lover’s unrelenting grip, “but some lost, wandering stableboy doesn’t need to.”

Dean cranes his neck back in an obnoxiously exaggerated pantomime as he peers through the scattered trees behind them. “Nope. There’s no one around,” he chuckles. “Certainly no misplaced stableboys.” He gives Sam’s arms one last squeeze, then claps his hands higher against his shoulders. “Which is a good thing, considering what I’m about to do.”

Sam half expects him to go for the laces on his trousers, one last hurrah before the king catches his son and tosses him in the stocks for a week for shirking his duties, but Dean simply drops to one knee. “Samuel Campbell,” he declares grandly.

“Oh, no,” Sam says with slowly rising terror. “Don’t you dare. Your father is going to _kill_ you.”

Dean stubbornly continues on like Sam hasn’t spoken. “Will you do me the honor—”

“No, I will not, you absolute loon,” Sam laughs as he tries to tug Dean up from where he’s kneeling in the grass.

Dean shoos him away. “Sammy, shut up. I’m trying to propose.” Sam scoffs in amusement as Dean somehow manages to capture one of his hands, but it doesn’t seem to deter the prince one whit. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he finishes, pressing a kiss to the back of Sam’s knuckles. “Because spending the rest of my life with some stuffed-shirt noble sounds like an absolute horror.”

Sam finally gives up on trying to reclaim his hand and instead flicks the hair out of his eyes with an exasperated shake of his head. “And if I say ‘no’?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Dean asks with a rakish grin. “I’m the prince. If you refuse me anything, your head could end up a trophy for my hunting lodge.”

Sam makes a—rather unflattering—snorting sound. “You’re quite the romantic, Your Highness.”

“I’m told I have my moments.”

He lets out a long, low sigh as he stalls. “Dean, I want to,” Sam says in all honesty. “I want to so much it’s absolutely sickening, but this is insane. I’m not of royal blood. The rest of the kingdom would never accept—”

“To hell with the rest of the kingdom,” Dean interrupts sharply, his good mood vanishing in an instant. “Let them stew in their own elitism.”

Sam pins his lover with a look of skepticism. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Dean says, grim-faced. “They want me to ride into battle? Put my life on the line to defend the innocent? Fine. They need me to spend every waking moment discussing tedious economic policies and establishing trade routes for the betterment of the land? I’ll do it.” He locks their gazes, and Sam can’t read anything other than complete sincerity in Dean’s eyes. “But not without you at my side. I absolutely _refuse_ to be a part of a kingdom that won’t allow me this.”

“You don’t get a choice,” he says softly. “Neither of us do.”

Dean growls and uses their linked hands to yank himself back to his feet, pulling Sam off-balance until he gets his bearings again. “And why not?” he asks snippily. “If I were to marry Prince Castiel, for example, or the Duke of Fitzgerald—”

“Good God, _don’t_. The Duke of Fitzgerald is a well-meaning fool.”

“My point _being_ ,” Dean continues, “if I were to marry a man, I would be expected to take a female consort as well—one of royal standing to continue the bloodline. So why in the Nine Circles of Hell can it not be the other way around?”

“You want your royal husband to birth you a child instead?” Sam asks sarcastically.

Dean cuffs him on the side of his head for his flippancy, but otherwise ignores the taunt. “Why can’t I marry a princess and take a man as my consort?” he clarifies as if Sam really were obtuse. “The kingdom still gets its heir that it won’t shut up about, and I’m not forced to sneak you around behind closed doors.”

Sam raises a hand to his lover’s cheek with a sad smile. “Because if you marry a princess, there’s no need for a surrogate.”

“ _I_ need you,” Dean says, grasping at his fingers. “For my peace of mind. I need to be able to lay a hand on your hip without giving myself a heart attack at the thought of someone watching. _Plus_ ,” he says in exasperation, “I keep forgetting my place at the most inopportune times. Last week, Kevin saw me kiss your hand in passing and I had to do the same to every single one of the cooks so as not to arouse suspicion.”

Sam chokes on the laugh trying to escape his throat as he imagines the look on the poor steward’s face. “I bet Jo was pleased at that, at least.”

“Yes,” Dean says dryly, “but Ash was most definitely not.” Then he swiftly changes the subject, tangling his free hand in the ever-wild mop of Sam’s hair. “Please, Sam,” he urges. “Say yes. Marry me. Let’s go beg those old fools to make an exception for us. My father will help. You know he adores you.”

“Dean—”

“ _Please_.”

Sam’s mouth snaps shut at the surprisingly heartfelt plea. He takes a moment to actually consider what’s being offered, gazing into eyes as green as the grass surrounding them and finding that he’s only capable of one answer. Because he could never refuse Dean anything. Not once in his life. “Yes,” he says quietly, a grin slowly spreading from ear-to-ear. “I’ll marry you. Of course I will.”

Dean stares at him in shock for half a moment, and then lets out an exuberant, ringing _whoop_ so loud it echoes off the trees, before yanking him down into a kiss of relief just as much as celebration. Sam sinks into it easily, losing himself in every wicked movement of the prince’s tongue as he wastes an idle thought wishing that he’d never have to tear himself away to breathe again.

“Oaf,” he eventually pulls back to whisper against soft lips.

“Wench,” Dean tosses back fondly. He drops his arms to circle Sam’s waist, and Sam listens contentedly to the birdsong of the nearby forest as he wraps himself around the prince’s shoulders in return, resting his head against Dean’s temple. “King Consort,” Dean muses after a quiet moment. “King Consort Samuel _Winchester_. Has an attractive ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

Sam hums in agreement and tries to stop the broad smile from permanently digging grooves into his face. “And what might my official duties as king consort _be?”_ he asks playfully.

“Ah,” Dean breathes, pushing far enough away that he can catch Sam’s eyes. “That’s a very important question.” He clears his throat like he’s preparing to read an announcement from one of the herald’s scrolls. “The responsibilities are fairly straightforward,” Dean recites in a mockingly official manner. “You simply need to remain faithful to your husband.” Then his eyes go skittering off to the side as he artlessly attempts to shoehorn in another chore. “…And bring me ale whenever I ask for it.”

Sam snorts in amusement, completely ignoring the second charge. “Do I have to remain faithful even while you are _entertaining_ your queen?”

“Yes, _alas_ ,” Dean says dramatically. “It’s an unfair system. But in return I promise never to trip you before the assembled court again, even if the results will be spectacularly amusing.”

“Or hide any more snails beneath my bedcovers?” Sam prods.

Dean grumbles a bit at the restriction before finally acquiescing. “Yes, or hide anything in your bedcovers. _Or_ spread any more rumors that you were cursed with a pig’s tail by a jilted lover. There, are you happy?”

Sam takes his fill of the sunlit freckles flecked across his love’s aquiline nose, Dean’s full lips, the long shadow his eyelashes cast across his sharp cheekbones. The familiar features he’d grown to love so very long ago. “I am,” he grins, ducking in for another lingering kiss. And then a few more for good measure. Once he’s finally sated, Sam tilts his head up to ponder the late morning sky. “Does that pig’s tail rumor have anything to do with why Madison ceased speaking to me?” He had often spent a lazy day playing with the dogs in the royal kennels until the Keeper of the Hounds had suddenly started throwing cold looks his way. Dean clears his throat, but refuses to respond, which Sam takes as answer enough. He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, deciding to ignore the affront to his reputation. “You know, I think it will be much easier for me to remain faithful than if you were in my situation.”

“Oh please,” Dean scoffs, “you’ve had dalliances before. What was her name?” He snaps his fingers as he tries to recall. “The pretty artist.”

“Jess,” Sam sighs, smiling at the memory of her golden curls. She had eventually left for more lucrative regions, but their time together had been quite informative.

“Jess, of course,” Dean mutters in a poor attempt to remain serene. “How could I forget?”

He laughs at his lover’s—his _fiancé’s_ (and damned if that word doesn’t send thrills up his spine) obvious jealousy and silently vows to never tell him about the physician’s apprentice. Brady had been instrumental in instructing Sam in the finer points of _male_ pleasure, but somehow he doubts Dean would be cheered by that fact. Even if he enjoys the benefits of it on a regular basis. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says warmly, “I was only trying to get your attention.”

“It worked,” Dean tosses back, playfully thumbing at Sam’s nose. “I had to commission a ludicrously expensive painting of the kingdom’s westernmost forests just to give her an excuse to leave.”

Sam pulls back from the affectionate pawing of his face, and then frowns. “The painting of the fox hunt? The giant one that hangs above your writing desk. That was Jess?”

Dean cocks a smug eyebrow. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her brushwork.”

Sam opens his mouth for a witty rebuttal, then finds himself uncharacteristically speechless. The lengths that his prince will go to for his undivided attention is flattering, if somewhat worrisome, but Sam can’t quite find it in him to deflate Dean’s sails. He’d just promised to marry this man—for better or worse—and that means accepting the ridiculous aspects of his nature alongside the more suitably charming ones. As he rolls his eyes in muted amusement, Sam can’t help but wonder if he should have taken a second to think about what he was getting himself into…

Ah well, it’s been far too late for second thoughts for years.

 


	3. Truth

“So,” Sam says nervously, fingers twitching in Dean’s grasp as they duck under the shaded archway of the castle battlement, “remember how I agreed to marry you an hour ago?”

“No take-backs,” Dean tosses over his shoulder. He gives Sam’s hand another solid yank as a warning to keep up, then changes his mind, letting his fingers slide back to encircle his wrist instead. It provides an easier handle for steering—and a steadier grip in case the younger man gets any foolhardy ideas about running.

There’s an altogether too brief moment of silence as Sam winds up for his second round of worrywarting, and Dean uses the reprieve to guide them past the great hall. “It’s just, now that we’re actually facing this,” he stutters, “I’m starting to realize that the king may be slightly less enthused about this idea than earlier presumed.”

“My father isn’t going to care,” Dean says calmly, sparing Sam little more than a second’s glance. “I promise.” Then he grins as a thought arises. “Worst comes to worst, he’ll say no, and then we’ll just have to elope and go live in the wilderness like wild beasts.” They’re forced to break apart before his teasing jab can land, as an inconveniently timed chambermaid rounds the corner with an armful of dirty linens. Dean slips his hand free from Sam’s as discreetly as possible and fumbles for a charming smile as the young woman passes by. Thankfully, she seems to be too preoccupied with the resulting blush staining her cheeks to notice the conspicuous spectacle they make.

Sam’s face settles back into a judgmental frown the instant she’s gone again. “You shouldn’t joke about things like that,” he says sternly. “What if the king does toss us out? Or _me_ out, anyway,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re probably safe.”

Dean can’t hold in the chuckle at Sam’s ludicrous train of thought. “The king isn’t going to do anything of the sort,” he assures him—then heads for his father’s private study, leaving Sam to catch up if he wants to continue nagging at him. It’s only slightly irritating that he does so with barely a second thought.

“I’m commonblood, Dean,” Sam reminds him unnecessarily. “Whether or not the king _approves_ of me is a moot point. We won’t be able to circumvent centuries of historical precedent just because we want to.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Dean states as unhelpfully as possible. Then he tosses a wag of his eyebrows over his shoulder. “That’s why we’ll just have to make you an earl or something.”

Sam chokes on air. “Oh. _Well_ ,” he says with a completely obnoxious roll of his eyes. “If _that’s_ all it takes.” He stumbles a bit as he tries to match Dean’s stride, his boot catching on a dip in the stone before he can right himself. “We should have done this years ago then.”

“We should have.”

“Dean, that was sarcasm,” Sam hisses through his teeth, looking nothing short of terrified that they’re actually planning on going through with this.

“Yes, and I was ignoring you because you’re being a dolt.” Dean lets out a short sigh—finally having had enough—and halts in his tracks, spinning around to catch Sam’s face in his hands before he can talk them both out of anything.

“But what if—?”

“ _Sam_ ,” he firmly informs the head between his palms. “Nothing horrible or ominous is going to happen.” He waits patiently for his words to land, then relaxes his hold a little, just enough to stroke his thumbs along Sam’s temples in what he hopes is a soothing motion. “My father will be beside himself with joy,” Dean promises. “He’ll bestow you with some hitherto-unheard-of piece of nowhere land in the middle of the countryside to make you eligible for my hand, there’ll probably be some contracts that you’ll need to sign to that effect, and then I’m going to marry you—and your new title—in front of everyone you’ve ever known in an utterly ridiculous and far too extravagant ceremony that neither one of us could care less about. You have my word.” He gives Sam’s head another tiny shake to make his point. “Alright?”

Sam swallows nervously as he searches his gaze, his irises flashing between the gentle blues and greens that Dean fell in love with so many years ago. “But how can you be sure?” he asks haltingly, his voice just above the husk of a whisper.

Dean lets a slow smile spread across his face, knowing he must look just as disgustingly sappy as he feels. “Because there is nothing,” he says sincerely, “absolutely _nothing_ that could stop me from marrying you.”

The words hit their intended mark, and Sam immediately softens in his grip. “Dean—”

But Dean shushes him before he can get another word out, stretching up to capture his lips in a playful and indulgently lengthy kiss. “Now are you coming in there with me?” he pulls away to ask, and Sam’s eyes flick to the study doors like he’s only now realized that they’ve reached their destination. “Or am I telling my father the good news by myself?”

Sam pins him with a helpless grin, having been kissed thoroughly stupid. “I suppose we should face our fate together,” he says dopily. “I’ve heard that’s what married couples do.”

Dean rewards the change of heart with another quick peck. “Good,” he says warmly. Then he slips his hand around Sam’s wrist again, just in case, and gives three warning knocks before pushing open the massive doors with a heavy creak of wood.

The king is standing tall at the far end of the room, just like Dean expected him to be. Just like he always is, pensively gazing out across the grounds through one of the narrowly arched windows as the daylight casts his form into silhouette. His father’s study is his own personal sanctum—more so than anywhere except perhaps the actual woods surrounding the castle—and if John isn’t out with a hunting party, then a toss of the dice dictates that he’s probably in here. Dean and Sam both have spent many a quiet evening in this very room, forced to entertain themselves while they waited for the king to return from a particularly arduous hunt or from a meeting with his advisors. Sam would sit directly in front of the roaring fire, poring over the day’s coursework with a concentration so vigilant it would put half the kingdom’s scholars to shame, while Dean usually hung further back, flipping whichever knife his father had most recently gifted him between his fingers as he kept a watchful eye on the younger boy and the licking flames.

Dean smiles as he lets the memories wash over him. Nothing of the room has changed in over a decade. From the rich red velvet of the furniture and matching draperies to the steadily burning logs in the fireplace. An unnecessary extravagance at present, considering that an Indian summer has been sitting heavy over the land these past few weeks, but the king is always searching for new ways to chase away the morning’s chill. A richly-colored oil portrait of Dean’s late mother hangs gravely over the mantle—the only piece of art in the room, due to its grandiose size as well as an attempt at solemnity, he’s sure—and he wonders if perhaps the queen’s passing is the reason why his father seems to have a harder time dealing with the cold. Sharing his bed with a living, overgrown furnace seems to do the trick quite nicely for Dean, and the stray thought brings an excited skip to his heart as it reminds him of the purpose for their intrusion.

“Sire, I have some important news,” Dean announces, his back straight and chin held high. The soldier’s stance is a sign of greater respect for the general in his father than even prostrating himself over the thick carpeting would be.

“As do I.”

Dean wasn’t prepared to be interrupted, and the quiet words manage to steal his breath away more efficiently than the king’s solemn expression. “Oh,” he says simply. Sam looks at him like he’s a gibbering fool, and Dean refuses to color at the embarrassing display.

“Shut the doors,” his father orders. A hint of a smile flashes across his face to undermine the abruptly serious tone the conversation seems to have taken, but it’s gone almost as soon as it arrives. “Stay, Sam. This involves you as well.”

Sam freezes in place where he’d clearly been attempting to slip out into the hallway. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he manages with barely a stutter. Sam turns his aborted escape into shutting the solid oak doors behind him, graceful, like he’d meant to do it all along, then steps up beside Dean. They both wait silently, unbalanced and wary, until the king deigns to speak.

John slowly strides over to sink onto one of the velvet sofas, gesturing for them to each take a seat across from him, and the room suddenly feels colder as they do so, despite the cheerily blazing fire. “There is something that I should have told you years ago,” his father finally begins, voice heavy with the weight of the world. “Both of you.”

“Father,” Dean says cautiously, “did something happen?” His eyes happen to flick to the oil painting again, and the stern countenance of his mother sends something in his stomach roiling. “Are you ill?” he asks, suddenly terrified. “Is that what this is about? How long have you known?”

“What? No.” John waves his concerns away with a flick of his hand. “I’m fine, Dean. Calm down.” Dean snaps his mouth shut with a shamed reluctance, and the king sweeps a hand over the dark beard gracing the lower half of his face. When he lifts his head again, there’s another pained smile gracing his features. “This is good news,” he says. “Truly. My only failing is that I’ve held onto the words for too long.”

Sam shifts beside him until their thighs are touching, and Dean allows himself to pull a measure of strength from the action. “What words?” he asks.

His father smiles again, more authentic this time. “You’re already _twenty-five_ years old, Dean,” he says with a gentled sort of awe. “I took the throne when I was younger than you are now. And Sammy,” he turns to the younger man, “you’re well into manhood yourself. Have been for some time now.” John takes a moment to lace his fingers between his knees and pull in a deep breath, and Dean isn’t sure if the intention is to stall for time or if the king is just reticent about whatever he’s about to reveal. “I should’ve told you this on your eighteenth birthday,” he says, “or on Sam’s, but…” He gives them both a helpless shrug. “There was always a reason not to. One more year to push back the tale because you weren’t old enough, or because I wasn’t ready, or because the timing wasn’t right.” He lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “Or perhaps I was just terrified that the truth would change things between us all.”

“Your Majesty,” Sam interrupts, apparently curious enough that he’s willing to speak before being spoken to, even in the presence of the king. “What truth would that be?”

John takes in another deep breath, then lets it out in a sigh. “Your mother, Dean,” he says, though his eyes don’t leave Sam’s. “I’ve never told you boys this, but…the queen could not have children.” His father finally looks to him, voice lowered to barely above a whisper. “Her illness, it left her barren.”

Dean creases his brow in concern as he attempts to shepherd his scattered thoughts back together, not quite following where the king is trying to lead him. “So…you’re saying that I was unexpected?”

His father sighs again. “I’m saying that you were not hers,” he confesses, more stilted than rueful.

A spike of alarm pierces its way through Dean’s chest. “What?” he says dumbly, certain that he must have misunderstood somehow. But his father’s gaze stays steady and sure on his. “Y-you had a surrogate? But you never married any—there was no queen consort.”

“What do you know of Ifreann from your studies?” John asks abruptly, completely changing the subject. “I’m sure Bobby covered it in his lessons.”

“What?” Dean sputters again. “It’s—it’s the closest land to the north. We fought them in the wars.” He bats his hands wildly. “Why does that matter?”

“And who rules the province?”

Dean stares at the man like he’s lost his mind. “Father, who _cares?_ You just said— What does this have to do with my mother? With me?”

John simply turns his attention to Sam, apparently disappointed in the responses he’s received so far. “Sammy. You were always better with your schooling.”

Sam flinches at the sudden attention. “The Archduke Lucifer?” he answers uncertainly. Sam flicks his gaze between the two of them, and at least Dean can take solace in the fact that his betrothed is just as lost as he is. “Your Majesty—”

“What was the archduke’s nickname?”

Sam frowns. “His…nickname?”

John nods expectantly. “Yes, Sam, his nickname. What was he called during the wars? Bobby must have mentioned.”

“Er,” Sam starts, scrunching his nose up as he tries to recall his history. “The Scourge of the North.”

“And?” John prompts.

“The Shadow of Ifreann?”

“And?”

“And Lucifer the Merciless and the Bloody-fucking-Butcher!” Dean spits. “He was absolutely terrifying and I’m sure peasants scattered in fear at the sound of his boots. Now what does any of that have to do with the _queen?”_

“Watch your tone, boy,” John orders sharply, his eyes flashing with freezing fire.

Dean immediately wilts under the rebuke, feeling all of nine summers old again. “Yes, Sire,” he mumbles quietly.

His father waits motionless until he’s sure that Dean is docile, and then finally picks up his story again. “When I was in my youth,” he says slowly, “I once made a foolish, selfish decision. And due to that selfishness, in order to preserve diplomacy, I had to promise something to the archduke.” He sweeps an eye over the both of them to make sure that they’re listening. “I had to promise that if I ever married again, it would be to a bride of his choosing. So, when it was discovered that the queen was unable to have children, we were forced to enter into a conspiracy of our own design in order to protect the kingdom from the archduke’s grasp. Do you understand, boys?”

Dean nods again, and Sam lets out an echoed, “Yes, Sire.”

John turns to Dean once more, eyes on his, but the softness of his words reveals how solidly in the past his thoughts must be mired. “My late wife and I enlisted the services of a young peasant girl. She would bear me a child in secret, one we could pretend was legitimate, and in return she would receive room and board and a place among the castle staff. And she did,” John concludes, the iron nail in the lid of Dean’s casket. “She gave me _you_.”

“What was her name?” Dean asks hoarsely, suddenly desperate to know the identity of his true mother. The woman who had made him a bastard. Tainted him with common blood. Produced him unfit, under the law of the land, to sit upon his father’s throne.

John gives him a weak smile. “Her name was Mary,” he says.

 _Mary Campbell_. Sam’s birth mother.

Sam goes utterly rigid beside him as Dean’s insides turn to jagged shards of ice. _Oh_ —he thinks somewhat blankly. _So that’s what it feels like for a human heart to shatter into one thousand pieces._ John pauses for a moment to let the information settle, but doesn’t seem to notice the thick dread suddenly choking his two sons. His _sons_.

He turns his smile to Sam instead. Dean’s brother. Oh dear God, his _younger_ _brother_. “I loved her more than my own soul,” the king says warmly. “And four years later, she would give me another child. My second boy. Samuel.”

There’s a brief moment of miserable silence, but Sam manages to force himself to speak again before John can notice anything amiss. “Dean and I…we’re brothers,” he says numbly. And perhaps his father— _their_ father—takes the trembling in his tone for shock instead of horror.

“Yes,” John answers gently. “Bobby was the one to raise you after your mother’s death, but you have always been my son.” His eyes flick back to acknowledge Dean again. “Both of you.” He raises a slow hand to grasp each of their faces—the rare, tender kind of paternal gesture that Dean usually basks in like a cat sprawling in sunshine—but at the moment, he can’t seem to feel anything but chilling sorrow. “But, boys, listen to me.” The iron in their father’s voice snaps Dean back to the present, wrenching him away from the guilt he’d been so near to drowning in. “This information _must_ remain behind closed doors. There’s a reason I’ve kept this secret from the court all these years.” Dean blinks slowly, trying to get his swirling thoughts to focus on what his father is saying to them. “Neither of you are my true lineage,” John explains in hushed tones, remorse seeping into his words. “Although you _are_ both of royal blood, no commonborn child can ascend to the throne without marrying into a purer line.” He leans forward in his seat, trying to make his point unquestionably clear. “If anyone were to find out about either of you, the kingdom would pass over to the next noble in line for the throne. The one with the purest bloodline.”

“Lucifer,” Sam whispers dully.

John gives him a grave nod. “Exactly. And the most important part of our job as rulers,” he shifts his gaze to include Dean within the statement, “is to look out for the best interests of our people and our kingdom. Do you both understand?”

“So we keep it between us,” Dean says distantly, the words falling off his tongue by rote, as his mind is still trying to drag itself back to some semblance of sanity. “We never tell a soul, Sammy keeps on pretending to be the son of a scullery maid, and I marry into pure royalty just to be safe.”

Their father winces a little at the unforgiving way Dean’s just laid their future out, but apparently can’t bring himself to contradict the statement. “I am truly sorry about the burden I’ve placed upon both your shoulders,” he says gently, “but such is the life of a leader. We must put the needs of our people above our own.” There’s a long moment of stillness, as the three of them sit there and try to absorb the final words. But as usual, the king is the first one to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” John eventually breathes out with a recriminatory shake of his head. “I’m afraid I’ve completely upstaged your moment, Dean. You said you had news as well?”

“What?” Dean blinks, caught completely off-kilter. Then he remembers, and the events of the morning come rushing back through his mind. What had given his soul wings to soar only a few minutes ago now sits like a stone in the center of his gut. “The mandate you gave me,” Dean manages to force past unresponsive lips. “I’ve chosen—” he breaks off with a painful clench of his jaw as he forces himself to wrench his gaze away from the man beside him. “Sorry, not chosen.” _Can’t be the one he’d chosen. Not now. Not ever._ “What I meant to say was, I’m _ready_ to choose a spouse.” He sets his shoulders and very studiously ignores Sam’s painful flinch at his side.

“Oh, of course,” the king says graciously, the spark of good news cutting through the dark tension of their earlier conversation. “Because of your upcoming birthday, yes.” John grants him a look of subtle pride. “I’m so glad, Dean.” Then he pauses for a moment to chuckle under his breath. “I must admit, I was worried this day would never come. I thought you might have taken too much after me.”

“Sire?” Dean asks half-heartedly.

John leans back against the sofa and lets out an embarrassed sigh. “I put off my own marriage for far too many years because of a childish desire to follow my heart. A quirk of the blood, I’m afraid,” he jokes lightly. “One that I worried I’d passed onto you.” He turns to his second son with a slight lift of his brows. “What about you, Sammy? Do you feel the burning need to marry for love?”

“I very much do,” Sam says in a terrible little voice.

Their father smiles honestly at the confession, dropping an affectionate hand to rest on his shoulder. “Good man. Your common standing might suit you well in this. You’ll be the only one out of us with a chance.”

“Oh, come now,” Sam tries to jest, but the humor is undercut by the way his voice is still trembling with the painful truth. “I can’t imagine the family curse would end with me.”

John laughs out loud at the reply, then stands with another final pat to both of their shoulders. “I can’t tell you boys how good it does my heart to have you finally know the truth about your mother. About each other.” He strides over to gaze out the window again. “And I promise as soon as I return, we’ll be sure to discuss this further.”

“Are you leaving, Your Majesty?” Sam asks without thinking. The king simply stares at him in amusement until he realizes his mistake. “I mean…Father,” Sam corrects himself clumsily, and the authenticity of the title sends another stone tumbling into Dean’s belly. “Are you leaving?”

John turns back to his window, probably trying to catch a glimpse of some hart between the trees that he can chase after later. “Azazel wants me on a diplomatic mission to one of our allied lands across the Frozen Sea. I’ve been putting it off for months now,” he admits grudgingly, “and he finally managed to get me to agree.”

Dean narrows his eyes in distaste at the news, and not only because his father’s closest advisor happens to make his skin itch. “Shouldn’t I be accompanying you?” he asks warily. “You rarely take trips of this sort on your own.”

“You’re to be married soon,” John says, lightly fond. “Trust me, son. You’ll have more than enough on your plate as it is.” He lingers without breaking eye contact, as if to preserve the precious moment in crystalline amber. “…I’ll be back before you know it,” he finally says, “and we’ll have so very much to discuss.” Another warm glance to Sam. “All _three_ of us.”

Dean gives his father a parting nod, able to tell when the king wants to be left alone due to years of silent idolatry, then stands to pull open one of the heavy doors, Sam—his _brother_ —at his heels. Dean’s actually surprised at himself for how he seems to be handling everything so well. All of his extremities just feel freezing. And a little numb. And prickly. But it’s manageable. The dizziness in his head and narrowing of his vision is probably just a side-effect of standing up too quickly.

He manages to keep himself together and somewhat dignified until they make it back out into the hallway, but he can’t say as much for Sam. The younger man collapses to his knees the instant that the doors close behind them, white as a sheet, and scrambling to grab onto the nearest thing he can reach like he’s afraid he’ll be flung off the surface of the Earth if he lets go. Dean’s never been able stop himself from hovering like an overzealous governess in the face of Sam’s distress, though he tries not to appear too solicitous as he waits until his brother is looking less likely to spill his breakfast into one of the glazed urns flanking the study doors.

“Sorry,” Sam roughly apologizes into the broad leaves fringing his face. “I’ll be fine, I just need a moment.”

A wisp of sympathetic nausea winds its way through Dean’s innards, and he wonders if maybe he spoke too soon. If he should try and see if Sam will share his spot at the decorative planter.

“Sam, we need to—” He cuts himself short with a jagged sigh and risks reaching out a tentative hand. “Sammy, please,” he whispers, fingers just grazing the curve of his back. “We need to move before someone sees. How would we explain ourselves?”

Sam swallows hard at the honest words. “You’re right.” He makes a weak attempt to stand on his own, then bolsters his wobbling knees with a hand against the stone wall. “Sorry. I’ll just—”

“Come on,” Dean urges softly. “Just a few minutes more.” He manages to guide his brother back to their connected chambers without any more incidents, though he does feel like he’s gliding through a thick fog the entire time. Sam manages to keep himself on his feet even after Dean’s doors shut behind them, so he’s willing to chalk the last few moments up as a win—desperately ignoring the fact that the mortar blast of the preceding conversation has sharply skewed everything else towards _fucked_.

They just stand there for far too long a time, clumsily avoiding eye contact as their harsh breaths fill up the empty spaces of the room. Stilted and uncomfortable and miserable in each other’s company in a way they’ve never been before.

So Dean simply starts talking.

“My mother—” He bites off the statement with an intake of breath. “Sorry, no, the _queen_ ,” he edits himself awkwardly. So much for a smooth transition. Dean shakes his head and starts again. “The queen was always cool towards me when I was a boy. Never cruel, God forbid, or hateful, but… _cool_. I just assumed it was expected for a family of royalty. A byproduct of the time I spent with the tutors and nursemaids.” He risks a quick glance to see that Sam is listening with unwavering attention, his brother’s eyes shyly locked onto his, so he continues on. “And it never bothered me because Mary—” Dean cuts off suddenly, fighting past the unexpected tightness in his throat. “She would somehow always know when I needed a loving word or touch. Every single time, like magic. She used to bake me pies from scratch. Any flavor I could think of. Even inventing new ones at my urging. We’d sit in the kitchen together for hours as I watched her go about her work. She would sing me her favorite songs. I never wanted for attention because she would always—” He digs his fingernails into his palms as a violent surge of emotion threatens to drown him. “Dear God,” he whispers, “she was my _mother_.”

Dean eventually manages to struggle through the moment, forcing his breathing to calm as he gradually gets ahold of himself. “I lost her. I lost her decades before I even knew she was mine.” He raises his head grimly, eyes flashing with determination as he meets his brother’s gaze. “I will not let that happen again with you.”

Sam lets out a low sigh. “Dean, you won’t lose me,” he promises reflexively, and then his mouth twists into a distorted grimace as his brain catches up to what he’s just said. “After all, we’re _family_ ,” he spits bitterly.

“…Not what I meant.”

Sam just blinks at him for too long until his message finally registers, and then his eyes blow wide. “What? Have you lost your mind?” he sputters wildly. “You can’t actually mean to—“ He frantically wrenches his fingers through his hair in frustration and starts pacing back and forth before Dean’s bed. “Dean, that’s lunacy! If anyone ever found out, we’d be executed for indecency! Or treason! _Christ_ , we’d be lucky if we survived half a year! Not to mention the—” His gaze happens to wander past him again, and Sam stops dead in his tracks. “Dean, how in the name of the Devil are you acting so _calm_ about all this?”

And he is, Dean realizes with an incongruous jolt of humor. He’s astonishingly calm. Standing here, with Sam alive and breathing and within reach, there’s no other alternative. There never could have been. Dean’s mind has been made up from the very first moment he found out the truth. Even if he hadn’t realized it. “I refuse to let this change us,” he says evenly.

Sam’s brows draw down so sharply at his words that Dean’s half afraid the lines will be etched there permanently. “Dean, you can’t just _refuse_. This is monumental. It’s life-changing. It’s—”

“It’s _us_ ,” Dean finishes for him, surely striding across the space between them as he reaches up to cup his face. “It’s us, Sammy. You and me.”

His brother flinches away from his palm for one horrifying second, and Dean’s heart seizes in his chest until Sam finally leans back into the touch, granting him his blessed salvation. The pain and misery gradually slipping from his expression like something’s unraveling deep within him.

“How are we possibly going to do this?” he asks quietly. Brokenly.

Dean pulls him down into his embrace, cradles Sam’s stiff body in his arms. “Same way we’ve always done,” he says. “Carefully.”

Sam lets out a shaky breath and pours confession into Dean’s ear. “In my most private thoughts,” he whispers softly—reverent, like he’s with a priest, “I think I have _always_ wanted to be Sam Winchester. Heaven’s irony is rather cruel sometimes.”

Dean doesn’t have any reassurances left in the face of a statement like that, so he just stretches up and captures Sam’s lips with his own to quiet him. The same perfect fit as always. Sinful and holy and everything he’s ever wanted.

It certainly doesn’t feel like he’s kissing his brother.

But then again, maybe it always has.

 


	4. List

Two months.

Two months and a handful of days since Sam’s entire life had been upturned as if his very existence was some kind of shoddily built apple cart, the pieces of his reality tumbling away from him and rolling down the cobblestones before he could collect them up again. All except for Dean. All except for his _brother_. Dean feels real. Dean is the only thing that still feels real. Everything else is simply…different now.

Because on any other given afternoon, Dean humming under his breath for hours on end would irritate Sam to the point that he’d end up kicking the prince’s chair out from under him in a petty act of vengeance. But the monumental reveal the king had unexpectedly dumped in their laps had so shaken Sam that he’s spent practically every day since desperately soaking in every one of Dean’s obnoxious habits like they’re virtues instead of flaws. From his disgusting tendency to chew with his mouth open at the banquet table to the way his gaze will sometimes linger too long on a few of the more enticing court members’ backsides. Sam had been a hair’s breadth from losing his brother forever—despite somewhat ironically gaining one at the same time—and he isn’t willing to take a single second for granted now that he knows how close his life had come to falling apart. If Dean’s whims had happened to blow the other way, if he had chosen instead to keep the sibling and forget the lover, Sam’s heart would have most likely died in his very chest.

He also can’t seem to stop _looking_ at Dean, ever since that morning, cataloguing each one of his physical features with the same sort of grim fascination he gets when picking at a still-healing wound. They’re _brothers_ , the two of them—and that inescapable sin has been steadily eating at Sam from the inside out. He won’t ever be able to forget that fact. Not for as long as he lives. Nor has he been able to stop himself from seeing it in every single furtive glance he sends the other man’s way.

Because they do have similar builds, he and Dean. Not quite identical, but close enough that it now sends his stomach curling in guilty arousal every time his eyes hang too long on his brother’s form. Dean’s height and the breadth of his shoulders would be impressive against any man’s, other than Sam himself. He forgets sometimes, what Dean looks like against people who aren’t him. It’s been so long since he was last forced to endure the unwanted sight. Their coloring is passably comparable, though Dean has always been fairer. But they both have strong brows. Sharp cheekbones. Distinctive jawlines. They look more alike than they don’t. And ever since the veil has been lifted from Sam’s eyes, he hasn’t been able to let it drape back down again.

Dean lets out a massively jaw-creaking yawn from the other side of the small table, breaking Sam’s train of thought and providing him with a brief moment of blessed silence, before he immediately goes back to his terrible, off-key humming. On any other afternoon, Sam would crack him in the shin out of sheer annoyance. Today, he just smiles a little too sadly and watches his brother work.

The official list of suitable candidates for Dean’s impending marriage had arrived only days after John had set out to sea. After _their father_ had set out to sea. Sam still has trouble forcing his mind around the concept, as if the very core of him still can’t believe it’s true. He hadn’t known a single thing about his father, growing up. There had been stories about Mary from Bobby, John—hell, even Dean from time to time—but no one had ever said a word about the other branch of his parentage. Sam had always just assumed his mother had a brief dalliance with an unknown member of the peasantry and that was that. But now…to find out that he’s the son of a _king_. A prince by blood, even if no one will ever know. Even if he’ll never be subject to the political rigors his birthright should entail. Not like his older brother. Sam shakes himself out of his own thoughts and glances up to watch the very man he’s been musing over roll his neck in exhaustion. Dean has been trying to goad Sam into helping him select a name from the list from the first moment he’d received it. Sam has been trying to distract and divert Dean with increasingly obvious attempts at seduction from that very same moment.

Fortunately, for almost two whole months, Sam has been surpassingly victorious.

 _Un_ fortunately, Dean seems to have finally caught onto his methods, and come Hell or high water is now determined to force an answer out of him before any more time is wasted.

He’s had them both locked inside Sam’s chambers for just under three hours now, so that they can more efficiently pore over the inked scroll. Somehow it feels closer to thirty. Sam is stubbornly refusing to be any more help than physically necessary, and his brother seems content enough to wait him out through sheer force of will. Also obnoxious humming.

Sam can’t say it isn’t working.

The thing is, it’s not like any of their current mess is a surprise. He’s always known he’d have to share Dean. Share him or lose him completely—and Sam’s never even entertained the thought of the latter. Mentally preparing himself for the day Dean eventually had to wed has been an indulgently morose pastime of his for the last couple years. Granted, he’s never embraced the idea with anything even remotely approaching comfort, but he’s still had _more_ than enough time to become accustomed to the possibility. And yet, now that he’s actually facing the situation, Sam finds himself acting with an irrationality that borders on the ridiculous. Instantly turning down every suggestion his brother brings up out of a sheer, niggling terror that any one of them could be the person who ends up taking Dean away from him. As if slipping up for a single moment will cause Sam to lose him forever.

“I think Lady Risa might still be willing to speak with me,” Dean mentions idly, chin resting in his off hand as his eyes track the seemingly endless list of titles laid out before him. He taps an ornately feathered quill against his lips with his right. “I mean, I didn’t exactly leave Chautauqua on the _best_ of terms, but it was definitely far from my worst.”

“No,” Sam says for what must be the hundredth time today.

His brother groans, in either frustration or boredom—most likely, a solid mix of the two—then scratches the name off the list. “Okay… Well, there was a princess in Robinson—”

Sam can’t help but bristle as he remembers how long Dean had spent on _that_ particular excursion. “No.”

“Lord Henriksen, then? Or Duke Aaron of Bass.” He hums a little more as he thinks. “Perhaps the Marchioness from Talbot?”

“No, no, and _oh dear Lord_ no.”

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and a pointed roll of his eyes to go along with it. “ _Cas_ ,” he states finally—with the familiar sort of exasperation that means he’s probably just been humoring Sam for the past few hours. “You couldn’t _possibly_ mind having Cas around, right?”

Sam shifts in his seat across from Dean, letting out a non-committal sound as he tries to think up a practical argument against. He’s actually quite fond of Prince Castiel, and the three of them have always had a close rapport. They’d spent many a summer in their youth tromping around the castle grounds on imaginary quests of their own making and the prince had always treated Sam as an equal, despite his standing. But Sam had never felt comfortable when Castiel had been rumored as a potential suitor a few years prior, mostly due to the slight crush he’d clearly harbored for Dean in childhood. He can’t imagine that being _married_ to the man would lessen the prince’s affections any. “There’s no benefit in you choosing a husband,” Sam points out, quite reasonably. “You’d still have to take a queen consort, and that would just leave us with _two_ unnecessary interlopers instead of one.”

“Alright, fine,” Dean capitulates, “but Neamh is an honest kingdom and a strong ally for us to have.” He rubs his fingers over his lips as he browses the list of names. “Perhaps Anna?”

“No.” Sam’s reservations about Princess Anna are even stronger than his concerns about Castiel, considering that she’d once actually managed to make it _into_ his brother’s bed.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean chides flatly.

“Look,” he interrupts, “it doesn’t have to be Neamh. There are other allies. Why not…” Sam reaches out across the small table to track a finger down the parchment, skimming his upside-down gaze over the inked scrawl. “…Lady Mildred?”

Dean chokes on nothing and quickly snatches the scroll away from him. “I am not marrying Mildred of Baker. She’s trice my age. My father will think that I’ve lost my mind.” He levels Sam with a pointed look. “Or that I’m hiding something. And not to be indelicate,” he adds dryly, “but I do believe that the good Lady’s child-bearing years may be behind her.”

Sam lets out a frustrated sigh and drops his head onto the table. “We’ve already been at this for _hours_ ,” he groans into the wood. “Let’s just call it a day and pick this up again tomorrow.”

“A nice try, but no,” Dean says, thwapping him with his quill. “We have to make a selection before Father returns and you’ve already distracted me into putting this off for far too long. You’re helping me choose someone by today even if I have to beat it out of you.” He flicks at Sam’s bangs with the feather until he gives in and looks up, catching the full brunt of his brother’s ‘unimpressed’ expression. “And if you suggest anyone over the age of three score again, I’m going to smother you with one of your own bed pillows.”

“I don’t know what you want, Dean,” Sam complains sullenly. “And I have no idea why you’re so intent on forcing me into this alongside you.”

Dean pins him with a bemused frown. “Because this is important for you too,” he says, dropping the quill so he can reach out to caress the backs of his knuckles. “Sam, this arrangement will affect all three of us. Who do _you_ want?”

Sam snatches his hands back into his lap in a moment of childish pique. “Someone you haven’t _bedded_ would be nice.”

His brother doesn’t rise to the bait, smiling knowingly instead. “Among the women?” he teases. “That may prove difficult.”

“You’re a cad and a scoundrel and I regret ever meeting you.”

Dean chuckles at the feigned insult, a weak smile struggling to remain on his lips. “You did agree to marry me once.”

Sam clenches his fists under the table until his palms start to sting, resolutely ignoring the painful ache in his chest at the flippant mention of their brief engagement. “And look how that turned out,” he can’t help but snipe.

The roughness of his reply must catch his brother’s attention, because Dean’s eyes suddenly go soft. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says solemnly. “Of course I didn’t.” Sam’s ensuing silence apparently spurs him into motion, and his brother rises to his feet with all the inborn grace expected of a crown prince, rounding the table until he can thread his fingers through the hair at Sam’s nape. “Sammy, come on,” he attempts, forcing him around to meet his eyes, “look on the bright side. If our tongues had been looser, we might have found ourselves tossed into the castle dungeon.” A chaste kiss to his forehead softens the statement. “Or the madhouse.” Dean pulls back to catch his gaze with a ridiculous grin. “And I can’t imagine Bedlam would agree with me. Far too many lunatics, for one.”

“I don’t know,” Sam tosses back dryly. “I think you’d be among peers.”

The reluctant olive branch of a joke seems to work, and something in Dean’s shoulders relaxes once more. “You wound me, Campbell.”

Sam’s throat closes up again at the careless words. His brother deserves a trophy of some kind, seeing as he’s now the undefeated champion of flinging unintentional daggers into Sam’s heart. Dean’s aim really is unerring, on the practice field and off. “…That’s not my name,” he says, blinking against the sudden heat in his eyes. “Not truly, at least.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence as Dean digests the veracity of the statement. “You’re still a Campbell,” he assures him sincerely, trailing a thumb over the hollow of his cheek. “As much as I am, I suppose. And a Winchester to boot.”

“Two for one,” Sam says bitterly.

“Two for one,” Dean repeats with a soft smile, intentionally sidestepping the callow barb.

And Sam can’t remain angry with the way his brother is tenderly petting over his skin. Or the way he finally urges Sam out of his chair, tugging him the short distance so they can lay down across his bed. Dean turns Sam’s head against his chest and Sam reflexively wraps his arms around his brother in turn, completely helpless to resist any sliver of Dean’s affection. He doesn’t want this— _them_ —to change. He can’t imagine not having this for the rest of forever. Can’t imagine being left in this bed, alone, while Dean attends to his lady queen instead. While he dotes on his _wife_. But that inevitable future isn’t for Sam to ruin with his own selfish wishes. He can’t put his personal desires above the safety of every man, woman, and child in Winchester. He can’t be that kind of man. He _won’t_. Sam valiantly ignores the bloody hemorrhaging of his heart and decides to be an adult for once today. “Whomever you think is best,” he says out loud.

Dean lets out a scoffing sound like he doesn’t believe in Sam’s sudden acquiescence. “And what are the stipulations?”

“Who says I have stipulations?” Sam asks stiffly, trying not to take offense at the assumption. But Dean just remains perfectly, steadfastly mute. “Alright, fine,” Sam grumbles after a short moment. Maybe he is still a tad selfish after all. “I have stipulations.”

“Who could have ever guessed?” Dean throws back playfully. He settles into the surplus of pillows behind them and draws Sam even tighter to his chest. “What are they?”

Sam swallows hard and pushes himself past the point of no return. “One,” he forces through his teeth. “You cannot be in love with her.”

He can feel the answering smile against the top of his head. “That shouldn’t be hard at all,” his brother says warmly. “What else?”

“Two. It can’t be anyone I’m already acquainted with.” Sam is already mildly put-out whenever Winchester hosts a ball and he has to make polite conversation with a multitude of Dean’s former paramours. They tend to fawn over him as if he’s the prince’s trained pet—a commoner mingling with the likes of royalty being such a novel concept for them that he’s practically a sideshow exhibit—and he can barely stop himself from hating them as it is. Seeing one of them constantly would be torturous. “It would be too strange for me to have to face them every day,” he says, a little more diplomatically than his thoughts tend to run.

“I suppose that knocks Jo out of the competition,” Dean teases, ignoring Sam’s muffled sound of irritation. “And three?”

“Three is…” Sam trails off with an exhausted sigh, dropping all pretense of humor and allowing the pain to make him forthright. “Three is that she must have a virtuous heart.” He keeps his face turned into the embossed leather of Dean’s jerkin as he speaks. “I wouldn’t have any less if she is to be your wife.”

Dean is still for a few moments, then he presses a kiss to his temple and gently untangles their limbs so he can pick up the list again. Skimming over the names one more time before he returns to settle back against Sam’s side. “Lisa of Braeden,” he announces with quiet definitiveness.

Sam’s ethereal tormentor finally has a name. He does his best not to wince as the figurative manacles close around his wrists, once and for all. “And are you two _familiar?”_ he can’t stop himself from asking, reluctantly glancing up to catch his brother’s reaction.

“Yes,” Dean replies, bitingly honest. “We were once. I accompanied my father— _our_ father,” he quickly corrects himself, “on a peacekeeping mission to her kingdom a few years back.” Then he immediately backpedals at Sam’s sour look. “But I was very young at the time,” he says defensively. “Not even twenty summers.”

Sam gives his brother the evil eye for a brief moment more, then finally lets him off the hook. “Princess Lisa,” he mutters, testing out the title in his mouth. “Queen Lisa of Winchester.” He twists away from Dean in order to salvage what little is left of his dignity, lying prone on his usual side of their bed. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that she’s as ugly as the ass-end of a dragon.”

Dean chuckles and follows him across the duvet. Utterly relentless. “Not as much,” he says warmly, tugging down the loose neckline of Sam’s shirt so that his mouth can reach the crook of his neck. “But don’t you want your nieces and nephews to be comely?”

“That is not funny,” Sam says stiffly, doing everything he can to try and remain motionless under his brother’s perfectly wicked assault.

“Oh, come now.” Dean leaves another series of wet kisses against his flesh, then gently scrapes his teeth over the area until goose pimples form—Sam’s body just as helpless an instrument under Dean’s masterful touches as a lute would be. He’d probably find it infuriating if he didn’t happen to enjoy it so much. His brother slips his arms around to tease at his front, and Sam can actually feel the self-satisfied grin against his bare shoulder. “It’s a little funny.”

 


	5. Death

It’s a brisk, breezy day just on the cusp of winter when Dean’s life falls apart for a second time.

The news about King John arrives swiftly, the messenger ship gliding into Winchester’s port the very same day his father was originally set to return…but the black sails hanging heavy from the mast tell Dean everything he needs to know even before the official message is slipped into his hand. The king’s ship went down whilst attempting to cross the Frozen Sea. He never made it to land. _All hail King Dean of Winchester_.

Azazel is at his shoulder almost immediately, offering his gravest condolences and prayers of concern over Dean’s well-being—and questions about the necessary arrangements for his now-upcoming coronation. Dean just nods when he’s supposed to and tries not to flinch at the man’s eerily jaundiced eyes. The official story passed around the court is that the royal advisor suffered from a rough bout of sickness back in his homeland, some trouble with his liver that the physicians couldn’t completely remedy. Perhaps it is just a reflexive prejudice on Dean’s part, the indicator of ill health leaving him unsettled, but Dean has always been wary of the man, regardless. He’d been gifted to Winchester decades ago as a spoil of war, the enemy’s greatest strategist offered up to John after Ifreann had surrendered in the final battle. Azazel has been nothing if not faithful to their family in the years since, but Dean still can’t quite shake the creeping feeling of distrust that brushes over him whenever the advisor is near. Some lingering sense of _enemy_ that must have been drilled into him after hearing Bobby’s endless accounts of the wars.

Honestly, the only thing that stops Dean from instantly suspecting the man having a hand in his father’s death is a lack of motive. John trusted his vizier—much more than Dean does at any rate—and the king’s passing has immediately set his own coronation into motion. Removing his father from the picture would have done nothing to better Azazel’s standing in the court. The reverse, if anything. So he keeps his mouth shut and lets his father’s advisor make most of the decisions for the ceremony.

Dean shuffles through the next few days as if he’s in a dream. He doesn’t shed a tear where anyone can see, and he hasn’t noticed Sam doing so either, at least not since he passed on the news to his brother with hushed tones and a tentative hand around his arm. Although, just because he hasn’t _seen_ Sam cry doesn’t mean Dean is privy to the actual goings-on of the castle. The pieces of the smashed vases Dean leaves strewn across his chamber floor every evening are silently tidied up by the next morning—with new replacements appearing on his end tables without any hint that anything had been amiss in the first place. And considering that he’s taken to sleeping in his own rooms the last few nights, he has no idea how Sam is handling things behind closed doors.

His coronation is a stately affair. Elegant and dignified and solemn. In the back of his mind, Dean had always secretly assumed that his crowning would be a joyous event. That there’d be copious amounts of ale and laughter when the time came, his father willingly stepping down due to age or Dean’s own marriage. That he’d crack a few jokes at the expense of the archbishop. That Sam would be glaring daggers at him from the crowd, trying in vain to fight off a smile at Dean’s antics. That John would clap him on the shoulder with a look of pride in his eyes.

Sam _is_ in the audience at the actual ceremony, providing silent support whenever their gazes happen to catch across the main hall, but not a soul smiles. His father’s crown feels heavier on his head than gold should.

Bobby joins him later that evening when Dean is moping about the deserted kitchens, the older man dragging Sam behind him by the scruff of his neck, and forcing a cask of wine between the three of them. The reminiscing is stilted at first, all of them unsure how to approach the subject, but the alcohol eventually lubricates the conversation enough that their words start flowing freely. Lets them have their impromptu wake. Dean hadn’t even realized how much he’d needed one—his loved ones gathered around the small table and laughing, no one calling him “Your Majesty”, his brother starting to look at him again without pity in his eyes. It’s the most human Dean’s felt in ages, and he slips into Sam’s chambers that night with an unexpected sense of relief in his heart.

Bobby wakes the next morning to find a gift of the most expensive vintage from the king’s private cellar carefully placed outside his doors.

It takes a while, and it’s rough going at first, but they eventually start to live again. Dean copes with the responsibility of ruling an entire kingdom by burying himself in the only remaining family he has left. Sam deserves an advancement as well, and Dean spends every spare moment he has trying to cram that notion into his brother’s thick skull.

“I already have a job, Dean,” Sam says for the hundredth time, shifting the remaining stack of books in his arms. The grand elegance of the Royal Library has never been able to pique Dean’s interest much, but his brother practically lives in here. Even during his leisure time. _Especially_ during his leisure time.

Dean leans a casual shoulder against the thick wood of the bookshelf beside him and aims for unimpressed. “What, cataloguing?”

The look Sam shoots him in return makes it perfectly clear that he’s quickly wearing out his welcome. “Bobby needs my help.”

He rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out the back of his head. “No, he absolutely does not. Bobby can scribble out new pages of whatever he needs to without you using ‘work’ as a cover for hiding in the back and reading all day.” Sam simply knocks Dean’s crown askew at the insult, then smirks as Dean scrambles to get it in position again. “Look,” he grumbles, carefully setting the circlet back on his head, “Ser Jody wants to retire to the countryside. There’s an opening. Plus, I’m king now,” he gestures halfheartedly, “so… _I order you_ and such.”

“I am not a knight, Dean!” Sam finally blurts out in exasperation.

“Not _yet_ you’re not.”

His brother jams a leatherback onto the shelf with far more force than necessary, and then shoves everything else he’s carrying at Dean’s chest, ignoring the pained grunt he lets out as he’s forced to catch the heavy bundle. “You finish my entire workload before the day is out,” he says dryly, “with _no_ help from the servants, and you can dub me whatever you want.”

Dean scoffs at the ridiculously simple task. “What, just these?”

“And all the ones on the tables in the back,” Sam tosses over his retreating shoulder.

“I’m holding you to that!” he calls out after him, but doesn’t catch Sam’s reply if there is one. Dean shelves the remainder of the books he’s holding in a few minutes flat. Easiest job in the world. He’s even chuckling to himself as he strolls to the rear of the study, anticipating maybe half an hour’s work at most. That is, until he realizes that the huge, mahogany tables in the back stretch from one end of the massively cavernous room all the way to the farthest wall, and the volumes heaped across every available surface are stacked so haphazardly high that they tower over Dean’s head. “ _Christ’s wounds_ ,” he quietly curses under his breath, pissed at his brother for playing him like a damned fiddle. Then he grudgingly starts with the ‘A’s.

Dean’s only a fraction of the way through the immense mound of books when Kevin comes sprinting past the doors an hour later. Because, apparently, there’s a considerable number of matters that a king is required to see to, generally speaking. Not the least of which being the response to the official letter of proposal he’d sent to the king of Braeden a few weeks ago, asking for his daughter’s hand. He manages to make it back to the library intermittently throughout the rest of the day, but he barely makes a dent in Sam’s herculean task. Kevin is practically tearing his hair out until he takes pity on his poor steward and dismisses him for the evening, but the sun is long past the horizon by the time Dean finally admits defeat himself, an assortment of titles scattered on the floor around him as he leafs through a treatise on the use of crossbows in combat situations.

“…What in God’s name are you still doing in here?” Sam’s voice comes wafting from above him.

“Did you know that crossbow mechanisms were first invented in the East?” Dean licks a finger and flips to the next page. “They made them out of bronze.”

Sam lets out a sigh and steps forward until the lower half of his legs are in view. “Dean, seriously. I expected you to give up hours ago.”

Dean says nothing in response. He’s stopped even pretending to read in the shaft of weak moonlight, but he doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes either. “No fucking way you do this much all in a day,” he grumbles eventually.

Sam huffs out a tired laugh and folds in on himself, sitting across from Dean on the stone floor. “Of course not,” he says. “Bobby’s re-ordering the entire collection. It’s a fortnight’s work at the very least.” He tilts his head a little, doing that thing he does where he attempts to peer into Dean’s soul. “You weren’t supposed to try this hard. But you did.” Sam’s brow knits up in confusion. “Why is this so important to you?”

Dean closes the book in his lap and lets out a sigh of his own. “Because you deserve a title, Sammy. I know our circumstances are shit and life’s never been fair for anyone ever, but this is something I could do for you.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Some way I could make it up to you. Even just a little bit.”

Sam’s heart is in his eyes again. His brother has always been fairly talented at hiding his emotions away when he needs to, but sometimes Dean can read him like a treatise on the use of crossbows in combat situations. Sam wants to kiss him. Right here. Where absolutely anyone could walk in on them.

They’ve pushed the envelope in the past, when the worst consequence they could have possibly imagined was a disappointed scowl from his father or a lecture on bloodlines from Bobby. But not anymore. Not after what they know now.

Sam gazes at him with that sappy stare of his for a beat longer, and then shoves his desires back, where they’ll have to stay until later that night. “So,” he says with a weak attempt at nonchalance, “…a knight, huh?”

Knight _and_ Weaponsmaster, as it ends up turning out—which officially makes his brother in charge of training the castle’s squires. Dean springs the second title on him midway through the accolade ceremony, partially because he knows Sam would have thrown a fit if he’d suggested it beforehand, but mostly because it’s hilarious to watch him squirm in annoyance. He knights his brother in front of the entire castle, and Sam tries not to shift around too much in awkward embarrassment while people are still watching. Dean’s twenty-sixth year may have come and gone without his father there to see it, but at least this feels like the first act he’s made since becoming king that he can actually be proud of.

The most useful part of Sam’s knighthood, however, is that he’s eligible to become a part of the court now, and Dean insists that he be included in every discussion on politics or economics he can shove him into. Which is only reasonable, as Sam is vastly more intelligent than all the rest of his advisors put together. He sets his brother up as his unofficial right hand man, consults him for advice on absolutely everything, and, respectfully as possible, lets Azazel slowly fade into the background.

Although, despite the personal and political perks, if he’s being truly honest, the largest portion of Dean’s current satisfaction with the title has to do with how pleasurable it is to be able to call Sam _“Ser”_ in bed.

His brother likes it too, no matter how much he pretends that he doesn’t. He rolls his eyes and calls Dean an idiot, but a blush stains his cheeks all the same. And it bolsters Sam’s confidence. Lets him be a little freer with his movements. His olive skin gleaming under the flickering candlelight as he shamelessly rides Dean’s cock like their horsemanship tutor is watching. Eyes closed and head thrown back to reveal the long curve of his glistening throat. Taking him in so deep that they may never come undone again afterwards—not that Dean would object. Too lost in the moment for self-awareness. In their choppy, panting breaths. In the way Dean’s fingers are clamped, viselike and unrelenting, high around his brother’s thighs. In the way Sam’s are spread wide over his chest in turn. A single bead of sweat glides down the perfect ridges of his abdominals to soak into the thatch of dark hair at his groin, and Dean is helpless to do anything but observe the gorgeous show playing out above him. Speechless, as Sam lets out a low, halting groan and rides him harder. Better. Furiously rolling his hips with that occasional little hitch-stutter in his rhythm that always drives Dean mad.

“ _Christ_ ,” he chokes out as Sam intentionally clenches around him. His brother laughs like the puckish asshole he is, breathy and uneven, and Dean simply drops his head back against the pillows and lets the younger man wear him out. His tight, slick heat milking him for all he’s worth. Though, despite the rapturous sounds he’s letting out, Sam’s more immediate appetites clearly remain unsated—his still-turgid length slapping heavily against Dean’s belly with every thrust. He releases the death grip he has on his brother’s thigh so that he can fumble across the bedside table, clumsily searching for the vial of sweet-scented oil. The heady aroma of frankincense and sandalwood wafts out over them as soon as he knocks the glass stopper free, and he tips a decent portion of the oil into his palm before turning his attention back to Sam’s demanding erection.

His brother arches back with a gasp the second he gets his hand around him. “Dean,” he moans desperately. “ _Yes_.” Sam lashes out to wind an iron grip around his wrist, his head still tipped back and his eyes still closed, keeping Dean anchored to that point. “Yes, just like that.”

Dean groans and furiously pumps his brother’s cock, the oil quickly warming against Sam’s skin and spreading more of that sweet scent through the air. “Come on, Sammy,” he says breathlessly. “ _Ser_ Sammy.” Sam chuffs at the nickname, but grinds down harder all the same—his bangs sticking to the sweat on his forehead as he slams himself against Dean’s hipbones. “I’m right here,” Dean whispers roughly. “I’ve got you.” He reaches his free hand up to span across the lean muscle of his brother’s sides. “Let go for me. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, _little brother_.”

Sam stiffens above him, letting out a caterwaul so wanton it wouldn’t be out of place in the back alley of a brothel. His inner walls violently clench down on Dean’s cock as he comes, spurting a long jet of pearlescent white along his chest, and Dean has to scrabble to keep hold of his squirming brother as he’s suddenly spilling inside him as well. Heat blazing through his soul as his hips punch upwards to fill Sam with his seed.

Dean continues to work Sam through the last dregs of his orgasm, ignoring his own racing heartbeat, and only lets his fingers slip away when his brother finally makes a tiny, plaintive sound and carefully drags himself off of Dean’s softening length. His cock does give a valiant, final twitch as the remains of their coupling leaks down his shaft, but Sam quickly squashes any thoughts of another round by bonelessly thumping down beside him with a breathy huff. His adorable little knight is all worn out for the evening. Dean chuckles a bit as he silently amends the thought. His adorable _gigantic_ knight. But it’s late enough that Dean’s fairly tired as well, and a nice, long slumber sounds more enticing than anything else he can think of at the moment. He reaches over to yank at a handful of the finely woven sheets bunched beneath them—wiping himself clean first, and then his brother.

Sam rolls over, snug up along his side, the instant he’s free of the mess. “ _‘Little brother’_ , huh?” he finally says, dropping his head to rest in the bend of Dean’s neck.

Dean lets out a playful scoff and wraps an arm around him in turn. “Well, it’s not like it isn’t true.” He tugs up the heavy weight of the duvet with his other hand until they’re comfortably covered, the ornate, silvered stitching of the thread lightly reflecting the dwindling candlelight. They always end their nights in Sam’s chambers, as Dean’s is the first room anyone would check if there was an emergency. Better for his attendants to find him missing and assume he’s in the washroom for a moment than to stumble upon Sam drooling on his bare chest, the two of them curled up like cats in a basket. Thankfully, none of the gossip he’s been able to pick up from the servants’ quarters ever seems to dwell on the fact that a mere knight has linens just as fine as the king’s.

Sam gives him a light squeeze. “You might be a little touched in the head,” he says sleepily. “If that’s what turns you on.”

“Oh?” Dean closes his eyes as he settles down for the evening, a smug smile twitching at his lips. “What does that make you then?”

His brother breathes out a laugh and then goes silent, and Dean almost falls for the brief moment of peace before Sam speaks up again. “…Did she accept?” he asks quietly. There’s no need to clarify who he’s talking about.

“What do you think?” Dean replies, trying to keep the conversation easy.

He can practically _hear_ Sam’s unflattering thoughts about him in response. “How foolish of me,” he says dryly. “Of course she accepted. After all, who wouldn’t want to marry the world’s most egotistical king?”

“World’s _handsomest_ king,” Dean corrects his brother without opening his eyes.

Sam lets out a fond sigh and places a chaste kiss to his breast. “World’s most adequate king,” he concedes. It’s a joke, and a light one at that, but Dean still feels a slight sting of guilt prick at his heart.

“You feel like becoming a baron?”

“ _No_ , Dean. A knight is quite enough. _More than_ , actually. Every time someone calls me ‘Ser Samuel’, I practically jump out of my skin.”

Dean accepts the denial for what it is, nodding so that Sam can feel the gesture even if his eyes are closed too. “You ever gonna pick out a squire?”

“I don’t need a squire,” his brother mumbles. “You’ve given me _all_ the squires. I can barely take three steps before I’m tripping over squires.” Sam lazily pokes him in the side. “Not to mention you advanced me over Ser Charlie. She isn’t pleased about that, by the way.”

“Tell her to bring it up at the next meeting,” Dean mutters, only half sarcastic. He twists his head just enough to blow out the thick candles on Sam’s end table, plunging them into tranquil darkness, and then relaxes back against the pillows with an exhausted sigh. “Just let me know, Sammy,” he says tiredly. “If you ever change your mind.”

His brother hums tunelessly against his shoulder.

 


	6. Princess

News travels fast among the aristocracy. It travels even faster with the temptation of an impending wedding and the winter winds at their backs. Clearly, there’s only so much hunting and hawking the ruling class can take before attempting to hang themselves out of sheer boredom, and Sam bets that a royal engagement of this magnitude is more excitement than most of the gentry sees in a year’s time. Rather unsurprisingly, a fair amount of the guests arrive on Winchester’s shores even before the bride herself.

Dean is constantly being pulled from one end of the castle to another in the following weeks, greeting distant relations from across the sea and paying his respects to the rulers of allied lands that Sam is certain his brother’s never even heard of. He plays the part of a gracious host well enough though. Sam, on the other hand, is increasingly shoved into the background as the halls start buzzing in anticipation of the looming celebration—strings of colorful flags being hung from every spare joist and the throne room practically besieged by floral arrangements in preparation for the convoy from Braeden. He and Dean barely manage to carve out enough hours to _sleep_ , let alone spend any meaningful amount of time together, and Sam finds himself becoming more and more bitter about it with each passing day. Really, the only solace he’s been able to find is in the fact that his brother seems to be just as irritated by all the unnecessary extravagance as he is. Not that Dean pulling yet _another_ exasperated face over Azazel’s shoulder makes up for the fact that they haven’t made love in weeks, but it does amuse Sam nevertheless—and tempers the edges of the mounting frustration threatening to swallow him whole.

Princess Lisa’s ship doesn’t pull into port until Sam is just one wrong breath away from shoving the nearest wedding planner into one of the _hundreds_ of confectionary experiments constantly parading to and fro from the royal kitchens. _For tasting purposes_ , he’s had carefully explained to him. He has half a mind to let the overly self-important bakers know that if it’s edible and packed with sugar, Dean will eat it anyway—flavor be damned—but Sam doubts his opinions on the matter will be well-received.

And it’s only because his brain must have melted somewhat from all the insipid party-planning that Sam finds himself agreeing when his brother asks for help welcoming the princess to their kingdom. It’s mostly just an excuse to avoid having to deal with one more flustered attendant today, but Sam reaches for the out like a desperate man. And the tightness at the corners of Dean’s eyes hints at a similar need for freedom.

Neither of them can completely relax, as a sizeable escort is practically required for welcoming a royal guest of this caliber, but strolling along the cliffs and down to the sea in the pale afternoon sunshine is the closest he’s had to time alone with his brother in far too long. Dean even tosses a few leftover cake crumbs to the calling seabirds, trying to get them to swoop at his rear guard, and Sam laughs for what feels like the first time in days.

But his good mood is swept away by the ocean breeze the instant he catches sight of the woman waiting for them—and the instant Lisa catches sight of his brother in turn. The princess is as beautiful as Sam’s worst fears, graceful and well-formed, with tendrils of glossy, dark hair escaping her elegant updo to be carefully caressed by the salted winds. Her eyes widen the moment the Winchester retinue sets foot onto the docks proper, and she lifts her skirts to hurry towards them, breaking away from her own entourage so that she can playfully fling herself around Dean’s neck.

Sam is thrown by the unexpected warmth and enthusiasm of her greeting, subtly edging away from the pair before the princess can cast her gaze to him, and Dean must be surprised as well, given the way he briefly stiffens in her arms before softening enough to return the fond embrace. But Lisa eventually pulls back from his brother’s hold, her dark eyes sparkling in the sunlight and her cheeks flushed with color from the bracing air, and Sam is duly forgotten in the abrupt shuffle of old memories and eager reacquaintance.

It’s a foolish thing to feel envious over. Dean hasn’t seen the woman in years, of course there will be matters that they’ll want to speak about. Of course he’s going to be distracted by his new bride’s arrival. Of course Lisa will only have eyes for the man she’s just been promised to. Dean laughs at what must be a particularly humorous reference to their shared past, and Sam quietly slips away before either of them can notice.

He spends the next few days doing his best to avoid the both of them completely. Which ends up requiring far more skill, and luck, than he’d initially assumed it would. He’s not blind or dumb enough to think that Dean wouldn’t take note of his hasty exit from the docks, but he’d hoped that maybe his brother would be so wrapped up in dealing with his new betrothed that he wouldn’t remember to seek Sam out until he’d had enough time to screw his own head on straight. Unfortunately, Dean detected his absence almost immediately and has been sniffing after him like a bloodhound on the scent ever since—so Sam’s been splitting his time between hiding in his chambers (like a coward) and sneaking out onto the training field to attend to the squires now under his charge (like an even bigger coward). The king isn’t supposed to be lurking around the exterior grounds, as a tournament is being set up in his honor as part of a wedding present for the new couple, and anytime his brother starts heading in his general direction, an overzealous attendant ends up shooing him away. It’s the first time Sam’s been grateful for the chirping dandies since this whole mess started, but he isn’t foolish enough to take the moment for granted either.

Not that his mind is actually on his work. Two separate youths fall entirely _into_ the mud before Sam can drag himself out of his own head enough to correct their footwork. Thankfully, Ser Charlie is there to step in when he falters—and to teasingly remind him of how sour she still is over his undue promotion every chance she gets. He graciously backs away and lets the other knight take over instruction for the rest of the afternoon, watching as her fiery crop of hair gets more and more disheveled the longer she’s forced to deal with their frustrating pack of rogues. Lord Chamber’s daughter, Krissy, pulls an entirely un-chivalrous move to land one of the boys on his back, and Sam cheerfully tosses out a few teaching suggestions from his spot on the sidelines, pleased as Punch now that he isn’t directly responsible for the hooligans. The ensuing glare that Charlie shoots over her shoulder lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that his brief reprieve is over the instant the day is out. And probably that she regrets even feeling sorry for him in the first place. Sam lets out a slight chuckle at the look, allowing his mind to settle itself solely into the present. Letting all the fear and dread over Dean’s new fiancée drift away to where he doesn’t need to deal with it just yet. If only for a few short hours.

It’s only a handful of days later that the final group of stragglers from the guest list manage to amble their way through the castle gates. Sam is crossing the throne room, headed back to his own chambers after a rigorous day of squire-wrangling—this time all by himself, when a loud burst of conversation skitters in from the main hall outside. A traveling pack of royalty this close to the wedding could absolutely mean that Dean is among their number, and Sam scrambles for a place to hide before he’s forced to come face-to-face with the very man that he’s been so deftly avoiding the past week. He barely manages to slip behind one of the larger tapestries gracing the walls just before the lot of them round the corner into the room proper.

Holding his breath (and trying like _hell_ not to think about Polonius at a time like this), Sam belatedly realizes that his muscle memory has automatically led him to a long-forgotten hiding place. The sporadic, carefully-placed holes in the backside of the fabric are a telltale sign that he’s accidentally ducked behind the exact same tapestry that he and Dean used to employ all the time in their youth. He tries to fight off the small smile at the faded memories, hiding from Bobby or spying on unsuspecting chambermaids back when they were particularly young and stupid. The then-prince had been the one to egg him on the entire way, but Sam can’t deny that the recollections are fond ones. For a multitude of reasons. Thankfully, the heavy drape of fabric is still large enough to cover him, even now—and the overdramatic depiction of a bear fighting a multi-headed serpent has enough blues and greens woven into the forest scene below that Sam’s eyes shouldn’t be noticeable peering through a couple of the more threadbare patches. It’s only as he’s doing so that he remembers his very pertinent reason for hiding himself away in the first place.

Dean _isn’t_ there, Sam discovers as he silently crouches down to look through one of the lower peepholes. Most of the faces milling about the throne room are vaguely familiar to him, as King Charles _“Oh no, please call me Chuck”_ of Neamh and his absolute _litter_ of royal progenies make up the largest part of the crowd. He’d go say hello to Castiel—awkwardly standing in the corner and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than crammed into a room with his entire family—but that would just lead to the prince asking him where Dean was, and Sam doesn’t want to get into all that while he’s trying to avoid the man. He shoves away a brief flare of guilt at effectively spying on his friend unawares, and skims over the rest of the royalty. There’s only one character lurking about the edges of the room that Sam doesn’t know, the tall, stolid man appearing somehow out of place and also perfectly at home at the exact same time, and it isn’t until someone in the crowd tosses out a name that Sam realizes whom he’d just been squinting at.

 _Lucifer_. The Archduke of Ifreann.

Sam’s breath catches in his chest as he continues to observe the man’s every move. He must admit, the terrifying rumors surrounding the shadowy archduke fall somewhat short of his expectations now that Sam is confronted with unassuming dishwater-hued hair and cornflower eyes. Lucifer must be somewhere around the late king’s age, given their history, but the nobleman’s years play generously on his face, making him look rugged rather than worn out. He does cut an imposing figure, despite his fair complexion, but there’s an enormous gulf between ‘slightly off-putting’ and ‘bloodthirsty nightmare’. Sam is about to relegate the archduke’s reputation to a simple exaggeration of wartime when Lucifer suddenly snaps his head around, his intense blue eyes boring right through the very tapestry Sam’s hiding behind.

His blood turns to ice in his veins as he’s pinned by that impossible gaze, and Sam can finally see why John had been so wary of giving the man even an inch. He doesn’t swallow, doesn’t make a noise, doesn’t even _breathe_ as Lucifer continues to stare across the room. Perhaps he’s just observing the tapestry itself, entranced by the artistry of it all. Perhaps Sam had inadvertently caused the material to shift and his eye caught on the movement. Perhaps he’s simply chosen that spot to fixate on while he thinks of other things, and it’s entirely a coincidence that his gaze seems to be locked right at Sam’s eye level. Lucifer doesn’t move an inch—staring that terrifying, unblinking stare for what feels like eons—until another one of Chuck’s numerous lineage accidentally happens to catch his shoulder. Uriel, Sam thinks he’s called. The archduke turns to address the prince, mouth briefly twitching in hollow forgiveness, and the moment is thankfully broken.

Lucifer turns to leave soon afterwards, a fair amount of the others following his lead and trailing out behind him, but Sam can’t shake the disquiet that seems to have settled into his bones. Like the archduke’s piercing stare has somehow seen right through to his very soul.

It’s a few days later, the first morning of the actual engagement celebrations—and _ungodly_ early—when Sam rolls over to find a large, king-sized lump sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Hell must be freezing over.”

Sam groans as his slowly waking brain tries to make sense of the situation. “Excuse me?” he mumbles groggily.

Dean doesn’t turn to meet his bleary stare, his eyes fixed out the window to track the cresting sunrise. “I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been up before you,” he says casually, the faint light catching the edges of his profile. Dean parts his lips for a moment, like he’s going to say something else, then he apparently changes his mind, dropping his shoulders with a short sigh. “I haven’t seen you around these last few days.”

“I’ve been busy,” Sam replies. Not quite a lie. He rolls back onto the center of the bed, slipping a hand over his nightshirt to rub at his chest. “With duties _you_ so graciously bestowed on me, I ought to mention.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” his brother mutters darkly.

Sam lets out a scoff. “No, I haven’t.” Absolutely a lie.

Dean finally twists around to take him in, one eyebrow arched in impatience. His brother never has been one for semantic trickery. “You’ve been avoiding Lisa, then.”

The exasperation finally catches up with him and Sam doesn’t even try to contain the deep sigh that pushes its way out. “Yes,” he admits sourly. “You’ve caught me. I’ve been avoiding your betrothed.” He glares up at the vaulted ceiling, unwilling to give his brother the satisfaction of eye contact just now. “Is that really such a surprise to you?”

“You’ll need to meet her eventually,” Dean points out after a short moment of reluctant silence. “You gonna fling yourself out a window every time you hear her coming for the rest of our lives?”

“I’ll see her tonight at the ball.”

His brother crosses his arms over his chest, doing his best to radiate kingly authority. It would probably work better if Sam hadn’t already stored away thousands of memories of Dean, red-faced and begging for release, in this very bed. Or maybe if he was wearing his crown. “This afternoon,” he says sternly.

Sam finally throws back the covers enough that he can sit up, for some reason suddenly unwilling to undress until Dean leaves the room. “I have a job to do this afternoon,” he reminds him as patronizingly as possible. “Unless you believe that your tournament field will be setting itself up?”

Dean meets his stare with an equally stubborn one of his own, and Sam takes a brief moment to wonder if that’s another trait they share through their blood. “Fine,” his brother relents grudgingly. “Tonight.” He purses his lips in mild irritation, but seems to work past the emotion fairly quickly, tentatively crawling his fingers up the bedspread to stroke over the outline of Sam’s thigh. A peace offering. “Why don’t you wear that white shirt of yours?” he suggests. More of an order than a question, but fond nonetheless. “The one with the laces on the front. It suits you.”

Sam places his own hand over his brother’s and nods in acquiescence, but it’s mostly to keep the moment’s peace. The faint hint of jealousy still prickling under his skin makes him fully aware that he’ll be wearing the red one tonight, just to spite the man.

“Alright,” Dean says quietly. Weak flash of a smile. “Alright.” Then he leaves Sam to his morning ablutions with the barest kiss to his knuckles and a benign sigh.

Sam manages to dress—the red shirt, naturally—and face the day to the best of his abilities, but can’t bring himself to dredge up a drop of anything even approaching enthusiasm. He’s never exactly been a fan of Winchester’s _fêtes_ , as it were. An entire night spent second-guessing his every move as all the other guests wait with bated breath for him to slip up just isn’t one of his favorite ways to pass an evening. Sure, he’ll usually end up being pulled into a dance or two by an overly enthusiastic member of the lesser nobility—one who’s perhaps availed themselves of just a _few_ too many libations—but Dean always spends the night dragged from diplomat to diplomat on official kingdom business. And Sam is left to fend for himself amongst a gaggle of bitter royals who seem to be mainly intent on testing his ability to spot back-handed compliments—that is, when they aren’t sucking up to the ruling family, of course. The only saving grace happens later those same evenings, when Dean slips into bed with him, pleasantly exhausted and red-cheeked from the long hours of drinking and dancing, and lets him in on all of the bawdiest bits of gossip he’d been able to pick up from the room of wine-loosened tongues. And Sam does delight in finding out that the pompous asshole in too much velvet who had been making snide comments about Sam’s _breeding_ all night long loves to be trussed up and paraded around like a dressage horse behind bedroom doors. Or how the stand-offish baroness with the ice queen stare can’t achieve climax unless her partner coos at her like she’s an infant. It almost makes the rest of the ball worth it. _Almost_.

There’ll be no such luck tonight though. Dean has a fiancée to look after now. A secret tryst behind the bride’s back on this, the very first night of her engagement celebrations, would be tasteless even for them.

So, Sam throws himself into supervising the construction of the jousting area instead of dwelling on his woes. He only needs to get through a few more hours, and then he can deal with meeting the princess. (And then hopefully get the night squarely behind him as swiftly as possible.) The result of the builders’ efforts even starts looking somewhat like an actual tournament field by the light of the setting sun—perhaps one more day’s work, at most—and Sam takes comfort in the fact that whatever tonight’s outcome will be, he won’t have to suffer through it for very long.

He puts his actual appearance off for as long as he can, squandering away the minutes freshening up in his rooms and stalling like there’s a bloodthirsty beast waiting for him at the finishing line, so by the time he makes his entrance in the grand hall, the party is already well underway and Sam can slip in unnoticed under the louder music and merriment.

Flashing swathes of silks and satins in every possible shade whirl their way across the dance floor, adding to the spirited fervor of the room, as the fabrics whip about so voluminously that it almost looks like the dresses are waltzing away without any bodies inside. Sam manages to snatch a goblet of wine from a passing tray and purposefully seats himself as far away from the rowdy celebrations as possible. If Dean isn’t able to spot him through the crowd, then Sam can avoid the evening’s unpleasantness altogether without technically going against his brother’s wishes.

He’s midway through silently patting himself on the back for his unsung genius when he comes face-to-face with a flip of dark hair and a pair of amused, blue eyes. It still takes an embarrassing few seconds before Sam realizes that he’s unintentionally sat himself directly across from his closest friend.

“Had your fill of the festivities already?” Castiel inquires neutrally, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he calmly takes a sip from his own glass.

Sam probably shouldn’t be bungling the very carefully arranged seating chart by usurping a spot at the table reserved for Neamh, but the prince’s face feels like a port in a storm at the moment. He’d been half terrified that he’d have to fend off strangers all night. “Would you think any less of me if I admitted that I just arrived?” Sam asks in response, scooting his chair back to settle in more comfortably.

Castiel does smile then, one of his awkward, closed-mouthed expressions. “No,” he says convivially, “I suppose you never have been the reveling type.” He slightly tilts his glass as an afterthought. “Though you must be pleased for Dean.”

“Must I?” The prince raises a vaguely entertained eyebrow, and Sam colors at his own churlishness _._ There’s always been a tiny part of Sam that’s suspected Castiel might know more about them than he’s been willing to let on. Some notice taken of their behavior over the years eventually leading to an ineluctable conclusion. Though he’s never mentioned anything outright. “I apologize,” Sam says more reservedly, sweeping a hand over his face. He needs to make sure and wrap a tighter leash around his wilder emotions, lest he act even less acceptably in front of the princess. “It’s been an… _eventful_ few months.”

The mood shifts indescribably, and there’s a brief pause as Castiel carefully chooses his next words. “I was very sorry to hear about the late king’s passing.”

 _Oh_. Sam hadn’t prepared for that. “…Thank you,” he says after a moment, and with more sincerity than he’d planned on. “It was unexpected for all of us.” Sam allows his own thoughts to drift for a minute, then forcibly drags himself back into the present, tossing a hand out to encompass the colorful revelry behind them. “And then Dean was crowned, of course—” he continues, “which is wonderful—but now there’s suddenly all these things that a king needs to attend to, and he’s engaged, and all these people are here. Oh, also he _knighted_ me, in case no one told you that. Somewhat against my will, I might add.” Castiel chuckles a little at that one. “It’s just been—” Sam lets out a heavy sigh as he tries to think of an appropriate descriptor.

“…Eventful?” the prince finishes for him, mirth crinkling his eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees with a groan, the sound stuck somewhere between amusement and pain. “ _Eventful_. I did mention that, right?”

Castiel takes a breath to continue, but a sudden prickle against the back of Sam’s neck compels him to twist away and scan over the crowd, quite rudely interrupting his friend’s next thought. Most everyone he glimpses seems to be thoroughly involved in drinking or dancing themselves into a stupor, and he’s about to leave them to it, when that same piercing stare from before abruptly catches his own. Faded cornflower eyes and a flash of a feeling so cold that it could freeze a witch’s heart. _Lucifer_. Unmistakably. But there’s no tapestry between them this time and the older man’s gaze is clearly locked on _him_.

“Sam?”

The mention of his name is all it takes to sever the eerie connection, and Sam turns back around to meet Castiel’s concerned expression with a sheepish one of his own. “Sorry,” he apologizes again. “I thought I felt—” Sam rethinks admitting to such an irrational fear of the archduke, then waves a hand between them to disperse the worry. “It doesn’t matter.”

The prince doesn’t appear to be swayed by his meager excuses though. “Are you alright?” he probes softly, but there’s an intimation of something deeper in his tone. Like he’s actually asking something more.

Sam pastes a grin he doesn’t feel onto his face and clenches his fingers tighter around his goblet. “Just eventful times,” he lies simply. “Like I said.”

They attempt to rekindle the ease of their earlier conversation, but Lucifer’s attention has cast a shadow over Sam’s mood, and it isn’t long before a couple of Castiel’s rowdier brothers show up to drag him away for some playfully nefarious purpose. Sam has a hard time keeping track of all of his friend’s siblings, but he thinks the shorter one might be called Gabriel. He can’t remember the scruffy blond’s name though. Something with a ‘B’ maybe. Honestly, he’s seconds away from writing off the evening as a complete loss and sneaking away to his chambers when he finally manages to catch sight of his brother through a fleeting break in the crowd.

Dean looks like a _king_. Handsome and straight-backed as he effortlessly charms the people around him. His eyes glinting like emeralds as he fakes a laugh at one of his guest’s jokes. He’s almost unrecognizable in creamy silk and dark green velvet, instead of the perpetual leather and buckskin ensemble he prefers to wear for hunting (and for any other occasion he can get away with it), and Sam feels something stirring in his gut that has nothing to do with his earlier unease. So he decides to brave the horde, making his way through the throng of well-wishers and over to his brother—if only to fulfill his promise from this morning—when Dean suddenly tilts his head down to someone at his shoulder. And Sam is instantly snapped out of his soft-edged reverie. Lisa is standing proud and joyous at his brother’s side, a vision of unwarranted beauty in Braeden’s official colors. Her gown practically gleams against her tanned skin, pale as fresh milk with heavy gold thread brocaded in intricate patterns all along the bodice. She looks like a queen, she looks like _Winchester’s_ queen, and Sam suddenly can’t pull in a single breath.

“Sammy, there you are!” Dean is beaming and standing directly in front of him before Sam can even blink, apparently having waved away the rest of the hangers-on. His brother ceases speaking, taking just a minute to sarcastically eyeball his choice of attire, before seeming to remember his manners. “Forgive me,” he directs to the woman at his left. “Princess Lisa of Braeden, I’d like you to meet Ser Samuel Campbell, my closest friend.”

Sam bites hard at the inside of his cheek and forces himself through his muteness. “It’s just ‘Sam’, please,” he says weakly as he brings the princess’s hand up for a kiss.

Lisa grins at him so vibrantly Sam would think she’s never been so excited to be introduced to anyone in her life. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Sam,” she responds perfectly. “His Majesty speaks of you so often that I think I’m more nervous about making an impression on you than the rest of the kingdom.”

The earnest statement hits him harder than he thought it would, and Sam falls back onto years of old etiquette lessons as he struggles to regain his footing. “I wouldn’t fret, Milady. This many people in one room, you’ve practically met them all already.”

Lisa laughs brightly at his thin jest, utterly charming. “It is a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” she says with a stunning smile.

Sam so desperately wants to find a reason to hate this woman. It’s practically been the one sliver of hope he’s managed to hold onto since first learning that she’d be replacing him as Dean’s betrothed. That if the princess were irritating, or perhaps even dull, he and Dean could find some common purchase in tolerating her together. But he can’t. She’s unbearably lovely. And apparently just as kindhearted as his brother made her out to be.

“I’m the same way myself,” she continues, completely unaware of Sam’s abrupt spiral into despair. “The last time Braeden hosted a ball, I think I spent the majority of the evening hiding out on one of the castle balconies.”

“Not a fan of dancing?” Dean teases in a clear attempt not to be overlooked in the conversation.

A soft smile tugs at the princess’s lips and she tilts her head up to pin his brother with a nostalgic look. “Let’s just say that the only man I wanted to be dancing with had stolen my heart and ran away with it many summers before.”

There’s a brief moment of awkwardness before Sam can find his bearings again. “I’ve heard he tends to do that,” he says, stiffly polite. Lisa swings her attention back his way, but Sam’s gaze has dropped to where her hands are wrapped tightly around his brother’s.

Her slender fingers fit perfectly in Dean’s. Delicate and lovely. They don’t look calloused or common, or awkwardly swamp the king’s own. Her hands aren’t too rough and too huge from years of handling weapons in the noonday sun or lifting crates of heavy books. They look…perfect together. A beautiful, flawless example of what a king and queen should be. Both of them gorgeous and shining under the adulation of the rest of the nobility. They were each born to do this. And they’ll make perfect little babies and have a perfect little family and rule their perfect little kingdom, and Sam can watch from the sidelines as the love of his life inevitably realizes what a perfect little wife he has by his side.

Sam feels a spike of anger race up his spine and he takes a few steps back until he can breathe again, the room’s vibrant torchlight suddenly too warm against his heated face. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness,” he forces out, as cordially as he can.

“Sammy?”

“I’m just going to step into the gardens for some fresh air,” he says, tilting his head to acknowledge the princess, and then his brother, as he attempts to make his leave with as much dignity as possible.

But there’s no leeway in Dean’s concerned gaze. He watches Sam like one of the falconer’s birds. “You need any company?”

Every single part of Sam’s being wants to scream out an affirmation, but he violently shoves it all down instead. “Of course not,” he replies smoothly. “I could never ask you to abandon your lovely fiancée on this joyous occasion.” Sam hopes the words don’t come out the way they feel. Like venomous serpents slithering from his lips. He forces his face into a rictus grin and aims for sincere.

There’s a moment—a single, solitary moment—where Dean contemplates joining him anyway. He can see it in his brother’s eyes. But needs must for a king, especially on a night such as this, and Dean finally dismisses him with a too-tight smile of his own and a cordial, “Enjoy your evening.”

Sam turns away before he can make a fool of himself even further and pushes his way back through the crowd. That sharp, prickling feeling appears at the back of his neck again, like he’s being watched, but when he glances over his shoulder, Dean is already absorbed in whatever Lisa is whispering into his ear. Sam swallows hard and turns his head away. He doesn’t want to check. Doesn’t want to know if it’s Lucifer again, or if it’s another one of Dean’s former lovers looking to snipe at him under the guise of polite conversation, so Sam locks his eyes to his feet as he escapes. Let the party carry on without him.

He does actually step into the gardens, if only for appearances’ sake. He’ll wander the grounds for a few minutes, thankfully devoid of any drunken carousers, until he can make his way back to his rooms without causing a scene by leaving the ball so early. And really, there are plenty of worse places to pull himself together in. The castle gardens are beautiful. Always have been. The trees are currently overflowing with abundance where they line every walking path, despite the wintry weather, and it’s an impressive testament to the careful cultivation of the royal gardeners. There are bright, waxy pomegranates brought from across the Southern Sea, soft peaches from the Far East, and sweet oranges transplanted in from the Golden Coast. Not to mention the verdant, creeping vines crawling up each trellis archway, the bursts of white flowers adding their heavy perfume to the chilled air.

Sam grits his teeth against the display of mocking beauty. Tries not to dwell on the inevitable fact that as he fritters away his time out here, he’s slowly losing his grip on the only person he can’t live without. That, _at best_ , he’s going to be forced to play Lancelot to his brother’s Guinevere for all eternity. Sam scoffs as the irony of his own thoughts catches up to him. Hell, he’s even got the shiny, new title now to go along with it. And that’s _if_ Dean even feels like keeping him around once he’s got his beautiful, perfect wife by his side. More likely, he’ll be tossed out on his ass the instant his brother grows tired of him.

Sam lets out a huff and drops down onto one of the gardens’ elaborately carved stone benches, loathing his own fatalistic sense of melodrama. The embers eventually manage to burn themselves into an actual rage though, and he finds himself mildly surprised to realize that his anger isn’t directed at Lisa or even at himself, but at _John_.

To be fair, that, in itself, isn’t a new emotion. The late king had frequently rubbed Sam the wrong way. Though having been raised thinking he was a commoner, he’d tended to keep his thoughts to himself whenever he’d disagreed with the man. Not to mention that Dean idolized the ground his father had walked on, so any attempt to vent later on in private had usually ended up an exercise in futility. But it is John’s fault. All of this. If he had only told them the truth from the start, then Sam wouldn’t be in this predicament now. He would have always known Dean was his brother and therefore would have thought of him as such while growing up. He never would have fallen for him. Or stubbornly _pouted_ Dean into bed with him a few years later. Or suffered through the soul-deep pain of watching the man he loves slowly slip away. He certainly wouldn’t know the agony of experiencing the sheerest heights of pleasure, only to have it all snatched away from him with no recourse. He’d never have been forced to feel _any_ of it.

Sam’s eyes blow wide as he suddenly realizes the horrendous truth to that train of thought, a dampening shiver running through him that has nothing to do with the night air. If all that had indeed come to pass, if they had been made aware of the truth from the start, then they would have grown up like normal siblings. He never would have known Dean’s love at all. His touch. His kiss. The rare, perfect way he smiles at Sam while he’s inside of him—all blissful awe and disbelief until sheer pleasure washes over his features and he has to turn his face away.

And sitting alone in the middle of the gardens, accompanied by nothing but the glittering stars, Sam can’t help but wonder if this was how Tantalus felt. If the centuries of starvation and torture were worth it purely for the sake of being able to see the fruit in front of him, even if he’d never be able to touch it. After all, the rest of his fellow sinners only knew Hell.

Sam slowly glances up at one of the large, fragrant oranges hanging from a branch directly above his head, dangling heavy and ripe and just within reach—and keeps his hands clenched tight against his thighs.

 


	7. Sword

Dean yawns as he stumbles out onto the practice field, one hand shading his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. He isn’t _technically_ supposed to be wandering around the grounds like this—not until tomorrow at least, when his ‘surprise’ is finished—but he seriously doubts that any of his subjects will be willing to contradict him with the exhausted glare he’s managed to muster up. He couldn’t sleep a wink last night. He hasn’t slept in a _fortnight_ , really. Sure, he and Sam haven’t exactly been able to keep up with their usual nighttime activities in the face of all the excessive wedding planning, but when he’d tried to slip into Sam’s chambers after the party, he’d found a locked door instead. Dean isn’t sure if it had something to do with Sam’s abrupt, unexplained departure from the ball the previous evening or even his brother’s awkward attempts to avoid him the few weeks prior, but he hasn’t been able to catch even a moment’s rest without the overheated ape draped all over him the way he usually is.

Thankfully, it’s Lisa’s turn to deal with the heap of unnecessary wedding fuss today—as a large group of her ladies-in-waiting grabbed her away for some sort of makeshift hen night—and Dean can’t think of any better way to spend his one day of freedom than by hounding Sam until he decides to stop being such an absolute fusspot.

A roar of youthful cheering erupts from the far end of the castle, which is the exact sort of cue Dean’s been looking for, so he alters course and picks his way over the dewy grass until he comes upon the source of the commotion. His brother isn’t visible at first glance due to the large flock of squires that have formed a ring around two of their own number, a pair of girls circling each other like lionesses as they heft up their training blades menacingly. They do nothing more than posture for a few minutes until the blonde suddenly charges at her raven-haired opponent, slipping a little on the uneven terrain, but still managing to knock the other girl to the ground with a well-placed blow. Another cheer goes up around them, and Dean considers applauding the victory before he’s interrupted by an all-too-familiar sound of admonishment.

“Alex, you aren’t even trying.” That’s Sam’s voice, speak of the Devil, and his brother gently taps aside a couple of adolescents to make his way over to the losing squire. “Claire faltered just then. Why didn’t you counter? Her right side was completely vulnerable.”

The dark-haired girl—Alex, apparently—simply shoves her tresses out of her face and glances at her sparring partner. “I guess I didn’t think of it in time,” she says listlessly.

“Hey, I won,” the blonde insists, anger flashing in her eyes. “What does it matter what she _could_ have done?”

Sam sighs and runs a hand down his face. “We’re here to learn, Claire,” he replies dryly—and that’s when Dean belatedly realizes that he’s been watching Ser Jody’s girls. He’d only known them by name up until now. “And that means from our victories as well as our defeats,” his brother continues. “An attacking army isn’t going to allow you the same margin for error that I will.” He hefts up his own wooden sword to shoulder height, his leathers creaking as he demonstrates the proper form. “If you lunge that clumsily during battle,” Sam explains, suddenly snapping forward to tap the girl’s side with the point of his weapon, “then the only thing you’re going to win is a blade in your ribs.”

Claire absorbs the information intently, then nods at his brother’s instruction, a deferential display of respect that brings a smile to Dean’s lips. She lifts her own sword to mimic Sam’s stance and glares at her adoptive sister. “Fine,” she growls. “Let’s go again, then. I’ll do it right this time.”

“It seems to me,” Dean finally calls out, unable to resist the temptation of a dozen swiveling heads suddenly goggling at him, “that an instructor’s lessons hold no merit unless you’ve actually seen him fight a worthy opponent of his own.” Every single one of the squires immediately stumble to their knees in their king’s presence, but Sam simply rolls his neck back in exasperation.

“Is there an actual reason for your visit, _Your Majesty?”_ his brother asks in faux annoyance. “Or are you here just to undermine my teaching skills?”

He can’t hold back the bright grin, or the chuckle that follows it. “Six of one?”

Sam lets out a smidgen of a laugh in turn, dropping his head so that his students can’t see his smile, and Dean silently delights at happening across—or perhaps even inspiring—his good mood. “Are you offering?” Sam finally asks with an irresistible challenge in his stance, his vulpine eyes mischievous and glinting under his windswept bangs. “Surely the _King of Winchester_ can hold his own against a lowly knight.”

Dean scoffs at the taunt, yanking the crown off his head to toss it into the nearby grasses. Someone will keep an eye on it, probably. He gestures to one of the boys—Aiden, if he recalls correctly—and the kid eagerly hands over his own wooden sword with a dopey-eyed stare. Dean briefly tests the weight of it, twirling the hilt around his wrist until the squires are all gawking at the impressive display and Sam is rolling his eyes. “Any time you’re ready, Ser,” he says teasingly.

Sam snorts, marking out a wide circle with the tip of his blade, and then smoothly settles into a perfect fighting stance. Just like John had taught them. “You first, Sire.”

They both remain on their respective sides of the makeshift ring for a long moment, shifting from heel to heel and warily sizing the other up, searching for any trace of weakness that can be exploited. He and his brother know each other so well—have sparred just like this, so many times—that even the slightest breeze could spell the difference between victor and vanquished. Sam takes half a second to adjust his grip on his sword, and Dean instantly seizes that moment to strike, lunging forward with a fierce overhead swing. Sam brings his own weapon up to easily block the hit, feet already moving into place as he shifts the parry into an attack of his own, and Dean realizes just a moment too late that the accidental gesture was simply a clever ruse to goad him into attacking first. Forcing him to give up the advantage. His brother’s eyes are dancing with mirth as he forces him back a few paces, the heavy wood of their swords knocking together as they put on a show for their young audience.

“Resorting to cheap tricks already, eh?” Dean taunts, shoving his brother’s blade away with a forceful clash. “You can’t possibly be that intimidated by a mere king.” A quick jab—easily blocked—and a light kick to his far ankle sends Sam off-balance just enough for Dean to gracefully slip through his defenses, reversing their positions and leaving his brother pressed against the far edge of their scrawled arena. He closes in on the younger man with a predatory smile. “I thought you were Weaponsmaster?”

Sam suddenly feints left, then ducks under Dean’s reach before he can catch him, flipping his training sword through an ostentatious series of forms to hold him at bay while he regains his footing. “Perhaps the king was foolish in electing me to the tile,” he quips lightly, showing off for his students just as much as Dean is, even if he’ll never admit it. One of the more complicated movements fluidly morphs into a stabbing thrust, flashing past almost before Dean can block it, all to the underscore of his brother’s laughter. “Or perhaps he is more foolishly underestimating me now.”

Dean immediately switches his weight to his back leg, diving down to swing low and wide, but Sam effortlessly dances back from the attack like the infuriating asshole he is. Dean lurches back upright a little more clumsily than he’d like, childishly irked by the fact that his brother doesn’t seem even the slightest bit winded. “Perhaps he’s simply trying not to make you look a fool in front of the squires,” he grunts as he stabs forward once more.

“Well, then he’s doing an admirable job at that,” Sam says as he parries the jab. He chuckles lightly at his own wit, spinning away from the next strike just a hair too unsteadily as he flaunts, and Dean latches onto the opening before his brother can realize his mistake. One well-placed sweep of Dean’s leg sends Sam stumbling backwards and tripping over his own feet before he can draw another breath. He scrambles, managing to catch his own weight against one of the weapons carts instead of falling, but the act leaves him sprawled back over the unforgiving wood, supine, and completely at Dean’s mercy.

Dean grins like the hound cornering the fox as he slowly steps forward, trailing his blade down to rest at his brother’s breastbone. “It seems I’ve captured your heart, Ser Samuel,” he purrs lowly.

“And I yours, Your Majesty.” Sam doesn’t sound distressed in the slightest, and Dean frowns in confusion as he breaks away to glance at his own untouched chest. He has absolutely no idea what Sam is referring to until he lets his eyes drift down a little lower, following his brother’s arm to where his grip is still clenched around the hilt of his own sword—the tip of which is aimed directly at Dean’s balls. Snug up against the inseam of his trousers. Sam must have played up the stumble purely for the reveal, luring him into another false sense of confidence, and Dean can’t help but be impressed by the clever ploy.

“ _Those_ ,” he says in restrained amusement, “are extremely important.” The answering flash in Sam’s eyes reveals he privately feels much the same. “I think I have to yield.” Dean smiles as he steps back from his brother’s splayed form, extending a hand to pull him back upright and acknowledging the victory with a slight bow of his head.

“Holy _shit_ ,” the boy from before whispers far too loudly at the dark-skinned girl by his side, “Ser Samuel just bested the _king_.”

For a short moment, Dean contemplates holding onto the kid’s sword purely out of spite, but that does seem like a bad example to set for the young horde of potential knights. Especially considering they’re to be _his_ potential knights. So, instead, Dean clears his throat and turns to face the gathered youths head-on. “ _Ser Sammy_ here has always been slightly more talented when it comes to blades,” he grudgingly admits, more gracious than a dozen other men would be in his place. “Whereas my own skill truly lies with the bow.” He lets the point of his borrowed weapon bury itself in the dirt, and then casually leans against the length like it’s a walking stick. “Isn’t that right?”

Sam looks like he’s sucking on a lemon—probably bitter that Dean has so quickly managed to turn his own win against him—but he also can’t contradict the statement without making himself a liar. “His Majesty likes to hunt anything that moves from horseback,” he finally informs the squires, “because he has absolutely no sense of sportsmanship.”

There’s a sparse smattering of laughter at that one, but Dean generously takes the hit and ducks away to let Sam finish his lesson in peace. Allowing his brother to think he’s retained the upper hand mainly because every single one of his squires is intent on calling him “Ser Sammy” for the rest of the morning, and, really, what better outcome could Dean have asked for? He simply collects his crown from where he’d flung it and settles back to watch the rest of the show in comfort. After only an hour or so of the incessant name-calling, Sam starts twitching like he’s about to lose his wits. He unsuccessfully attempts to warn the miscreants off with a threat of fifty laps around the castle perimeter, but the lot of them immediately acquiesce with assorted variations of, _“Of **course** , Ser Sammy,” _and then gleefully attend to their own punishment through alternating sniggers of laughter.

“I hate you very much right now,” Sam mutters as the few dozen squires go sprinting around the far battlement. “I need you to know that.”

Dean lets his eyes flutter open from where he’d been sun-dozing. “Want to show me how much?” he offers with a lazy smile.

It’s been so long for the both of them, all their spare time being eaten up by his engagement, and Sam swallows so hard that Dean can track the bob of his Adam’s apple even from where he’s sitting against the castle wall. “Yes, I do,” he says lasciviously, practically salivating as he eyes him like the only roast at a feast.

Dean can’t help but press the issue though. Perhaps it’s a fraternal thing. “I don’t know, Sam,” he teases lightly. “Don’t you have responsibilities?”

“Charlie can handle the afternoon lessons.”

And it only takes one more glance at his brother’s desperate eyeballing before Dean suddenly decides that agreeing is in his extreme best interest. “Yes, she can,” he concurs, finally reaching out for a helping hand.

Sam yanks him up this time, their fingers lingering for just a moment, and then they’re off and away towards the knights’ barracks before anyone can catch notice of them enough to stop them.

“Where’s your betrothed, by the way?” Sam asks offhand, tossing a furtive glance back across the pitch as he gestures Dean into the enclosed, wooden room.

The door quickly shuts behind the both of them, trapping Dean in the heat and smell of roughly three score knights’ comings and goings. “Some sort of women’s thing before the wedding,” he says, idly running his fingertips over a pile of discarded equipment. “I’ve got the whole day all to myself.” He cuts his eyes back to Sam, glancing up from under his eyelashes in the hopes of stirring his brother’s loins even further. Sam doesn’t disappoint, stalking forward in those deliciously tight leathers, sweat from the morning’s exertion leaving trails in the dust coating his neck. Dean can’t help tracking his eyes over the younger man’s long, lean frame as he moves closer, caught up in his own seduction despite himself. Sam is just as much in his element, blade slicing and twirling under the midday sun, as he is carefully poring over scrolls in the Royal Library and it’s a maddeningly attractive quality. Dean clears his throat before he can get too sidetracked by his brother’s exquisite body. After all, his reasons for enticing Sam in here alone were twofold. “Care to explain that little display last night?” he asks abruptly, fighting off a slight smile as Sam halts in his tracks and stares at him in utter surprise.

His brother’s wide mouth opens and closes a few times before he eventually settles on a tetchy, “It wasn’t easy for me, Dean. Seeing you with Lisa like that.” He lets out a huff of air through his nose, tossing his head to the side like a peevish colt. “And you know I don’t enjoy ridiculous, overblown soirees at the best of times.”

“You locked your door.”

“I needed time to think.”

The snap of his brother’s words softens something inside Dean, and he reaches out with sympathy this time, instead of judgment. “And did you get it?”

“It was…an emotional evening,” Sam parses out carefully. Not quite an answer to his question, but Dean supposes it’s the best he’s going to get. “I have a feeling the rest of this week will be more of the same.”

“Ah,” he nods sagely. “A woman’s time of the month is a treacherous thing indeed.”

Sam shoves away from him with a scoff, then reaches back to chuck a metal helm at his head. But it’s an old joke between the two of them, and Dean knows exactly when to duck. “If I _were_ a woman,” his brother snips, “I don’t think we would be in this mess in the first place.”

“Perhaps,” Dean hums, pulling Sam back into his arms with a forceful tug, “but then there’d be so much of you that I would miss.” He presses their bodies tight together, doing his best to wordlessly show his appreciation for the form his brother does have, but Sam doesn’t seem to be amused by Dean’s attempt at humor.

“I don’t know,” he says rather dryly, “I think I’d gain a few attributes you might be fond of.”

Dean chuckles as he reaches down between his brother’s legs. “But lose such an important _one_.”

Sam sinks into his touch with a reluctantly appreciative sigh, the previous evening’s unpleasantness finally dragged behind them. His leather armor is too rigid for Dean to make much headway with, so he diverts his attentions to the skin he can reach, lapping the faint remnants of their earlier athleticism from his brother’s throat. Sam shakes in his arms, always so delightfully sensitive, and Dean presses a lingering kiss to the beauty mark by his nose as a reward. Then the one at the corner of his mouth.

“How long has it been for you?” Sam whispers, probably spurred by the burgeoning erection Dean’s insistent on grinding into his thigh.

“Same as it’s been for you, dolt,” Dean chides him affectionately. “You think I’d suddenly decide to make my way through the court without your knowledge? Or deflower a new bride days before her wedding?”

“ _Deflower_ ,” Sam scoffs. “It’s not like she’s a virgin.”

“It’s not like _I’m_ a virgin. It’s the tradition of the thing.”

Sam nods in grudging acceptance, but pushes Dean’s advances off before he can debauch him any further. “Wait, hold on,” he breathes. “At least let me get all this off first.”

And Dean has absolutely no intention of arguing with a statement like that. He steps out of Sam’s space with a lingering squeeze to his brother’s rear end, and then backs away to the far side of the room, enjoying the show as Sam slips out of his vambraces. If he tried to help, he’d only distract them both, and then the entire affair would end up taking three times as long as it should. It’s one of those lessons they’ve had to learn over and over again before it finally stuck. “So,” he starts, fishing around for small talk until they can proceed to the good part, “the squires advancing through their training like the exemplary students they are?”

Sam snorts as he unbuckles both of his pauldrons. “Hardly.” He carelessly tosses the discarded pieces of armor up onto one of the higher shelves, then winces a bit when it looks like the whole stack might topple.

Dean eases himself down onto one of the long benches, relaxing back against the wall. “Claire seemed impressive.”

“Claire is violent and overly focused on vengeance,” Sam counters pointedly. “All her drive,” he waves a hand around as he searches for the right word, “her _grit_ , it’s coming out of rage. It makes her attacking thrusts sloppy and easily thrown off-balance.” Sam finally manages to yank off his cuirass with a strained grunt, hair adorably askew as his head pops through the opening. “Meanwhile,” he continues, tossing the loose breastplate onto the rest of the pile, “ _Alex_ is the exact opposite. She’s too lackluster. Her heart isn’t in the knighthood at all. I’m not sure if Ser Jody is pushing her into this or what, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she bowed out soon.” A couple of distracted tugs at his loose shirtfront sends the material billowing in the stale air of the barracks, and Dean’s blood heats in response. “And Krissy,” Sam adds, “is just far too clever for her own good.”

“Meaning?” Dean asks, casually slouched back and eyes half-lidded as he watches the younger man undress.

“She’s using the actual _wood_ of the training swords as part of her combat technique. It’s why she keeps beating all of her opponents so handily.”

Dean lets out an amused huff at Sam’s enthusiasm for his work. He knew that Weaponsmaster would be a perfect fit. “And that isn’t a good thing?”

“No.” His brother finally unwraps the faulds at his belt, leaving him in just a simple shift and trousers, and Dean smiles at the familiarity of the sight. “The whole point of this exercise,” Sam continues, “is to get the squires used to the feel of a weapon in their hand without giving them the means to accidentally run someone through. If she gets too accustomed to the lighter weight, then she’ll have to relearn all of the basics when we move on to the actual blades. It’s gonna set her behind.”

“Look at you,” Dean chuckles warmly. “Like a mother duck.”

Sam visibly bristles at his attempted offer of affection. “I am not a duck,” he says stiffly.

“Aw,” Dean coos as he pushes himself to his feet. He swiftly crosses the room to completely wrap himself around his brother’s back, playfully mouthing at the nape of his neck. “Did I ruffle your feathers, little duck?”

Sam jerks away from him with an elbow to Dean’s middle, leaving him only with a view of shoulders as rigid as the Northern Mountains. “I am even _less_ little than I am water fowl,” he snips.

Dean recoils at the shift in his brother’s mood, wholly confused by the sudden capriciousness. “Sam, I was jesting.” He risks a touch to Sam’s tensed back, thankful that it doesn’t earn him anything stronger than a twitch. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m—” He doesn’t actually turn to face him, but Dean can read a sort of surrender in his tone, regardless. “I’m afraid,” Sam admits bafflingly, barely more than a whisper.

Dean presses his hand flat to his brother’s warm back, willing to drag the answers out through touch if nothing else will work. “Of what?”

Sam winces like the words are being forced through his teeth. “I’m not actually that paternal, Dean. Never have been.”

The unexpected harmlessness of Sam’s reply sends a fond smile stretching across Dean’s face, even if his brother can’t see it. “You’re young,” he says affectionately.

“And _you’re_ to be married in two days,” Sam flings back at him. “The kingdom’s been clamoring after your heirs for years now. You and Lisa will need to start right away. It’s just…when you do have children,” he says, swallowing roughly, “I’m uncertain where that will leave me.”

“So you’ve been practicing on the squires?” Dean asks, finally fitting the pieces together.

Sam shrugs half-heartedly. “I figured if I were able to mentor them a little, then at least I’d know I could be a good…uncle? Family friend?” His head droops a little lower under the uncertainty. “I’m not even sure.”

Dean isn’t entirely sure about Sam’s official place in his life either—it seems to be getting more complicated by the day—so he casts the thought out of his mind. “Why would you worry about that?” he asks, trying to keep his tone reassuring. “Any hypothetical children of mine will adore you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Majesty.” Sam snipes bitterly, and Dean’s had enough.

He moves both hands to his brother’s shoulders, then tightens his grip hard enough to bruise. “What is this, Sam? Really?” Sam flinches under his assault, but Dean doesn’t give him an inch. “Do you think a squalling child would cause me to send you away?” he asks ridiculously. “That if you aren’t useful, there isn’t a place for you here? That you need to be liked by every single soul in the kingdom or you won’t be allowed to stay?” Dean yanks his brother back against his chest—misplaced anger suddenly fuelling the unexpected fire in his loins—and then lets his hot breath play over the sweat-messy strands until he can feel Sam’s resulting shiver. “Let me give you a reason to stay,” he purrs.

Sam lets out a shattered plea of accord, but Dean barely waits for the assent before he’s running a hand down his body, letting Sam rest against the front of his shoulder as he unlaces his brother’s trousers to slip his long cock through the opening. Full and blood-thick already. Fitting hot and perfect in the center of his palm, just like it always has. Like it belongs there.

“ _Please_ ,” Sam gasps again, pushing back against him. And Dean wants to erase every lingering doubt that somehow found its way into his brother’s mind. As if anything on God’s green Earth could cause him to send Sam away. As if anyone could usurp his place in Dean’s heart.

“You and me, Sammy,” Dean promises with a fierce nip to the side of his neck, smoothly pumping his wrist until Sam bucks against him. “Always and forever.”

“Always,” Sam repeats breathily, as his hands twitch and grasp at the empty air at his sides.

The sound of the barracks door swinging wide open gives Dean just enough time to wrench his hand away from Sam’s length before his heart gives out. They’d forgotten to latch the door behind them— _stupid fucking mistake_ —and they both immediately freeze, breath panting through their chests in terror as they wait to be caught out…

But the expected shouting never comes.

“Here you are, Sam,” a calm voice drifts up from behind them as Kevin strolls into the enclosure. “—I mean _Ser_ Sam,” he hastily corrects himself. “Er—Samuel. Sorry.” The steward grunts like he’s struggling with something heavy, and Dean uses the momentary reprieve to mentally take stock of the insane situation. His left hand is cradling the curve of Sam’s shoulder, his right is—after a moment of quick thinking on his part—now pressed up against his brother’s lower back. From any other angle they’d be discovered in a second, but the fact that Sam’s pants are still up and Kevin seems to be intent on remaining solidly behind them out of a sense of decorum means that Dean’s body is blocking the view of anything untoward. Somehow, _impossibly_ , they just might be able to make it through this unscathed.

Sam finally seems to realize much of the same, and he manages to squeak out a reply before the suspicious silence can drag on any longer. “Kevin, you know you don’t actually need to call me by my title.”

“Whatever you say, Ser,” the steward responds dryly, a hint of humor in his tone. “I have the squires’ training swords from this morning’s lesson. You said you wanted them in here, right?” His boots make a scuffling sound, like he’s halting in place. “Unless His Majesty would prefer me to come back after your massage?”

Dean almost erupts into laughter at the good luck. Because of _course_ that’s what this must look like from behind. He sends a quick prayer of thanks up for the misunderstanding. “ _Thank you_ , Kevin,” Dean says simperingly, ignoring Sam’s quiet noise of desperate frustration as his cock strains in the open air. He slides his hands into position, moving his fingers in little circles and rubbing at his brother’s stone-tense shoulders to maintain their cover. “Sam tweaked his back a bit during training, so I’m just helping him work the knots out. If you could put the weapons away so he doesn’t have to, I’m sure it would be a great help.” Dean can’t fight the urge to push Sam a little more though, cooing obnoxiously into his brother’s ear. “Wouldn’t it, Sammy?”

But Kevin’s already plowing away at the task, “Of course, Sire,” he tosses back casually. “By all means, continue.”

Though, turning back to his work, Dean discovers that despite their unwanted interruption, not _all_ of Sam is wilting under the awkward moment. In fact, to his great surprise and delight, the more his brother’s shoulders seem to stiffen in Kevin’s presence, the more his erection tends likewise. There’s high color in his cheeks due either to embarrassment or arousal, and Dean revels in the sight of the ruddy blush extending all the way down past the neckline of Sam’s shirt. He can’t risk anything too bold while his steward is still packing the equipment behind them, but Dean gentles his touch as best he can. Tilts his hips forward as far as he dares and turns the clinical massage into more of a titillation. Sam immediately tenses in his arms, the breath leaving his lungs in choppy bursts as his cock begins to drool onto the wooden floorboards below them. It’s astoundingly beautiful. His brother’s swollen length twitches and jerks without a single hand on it, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so exquisite in his life.

“You know, that will work better if Sam takes his shirt off,” Kevin says offhand, unintentionally slicing through the moment.

And Dean immediately succumbs to the temptation of further teasing. “Good point,” he agrees instantly, bridled laughter in his voice. “What do you say, Sam? Want to take your shirt off?”

 _“No!”_ The word is practically a squawk, the way it rockets out of his brother’s tight throat. One more deliberate pass of Dean’s hands—slow, kneading pulses against the base of his spine and fingertips flirting with dipping just below his waistline—and Sam’s cock finally erupts, completely untouched. Like a fantasy scene from one of Dean’s more lurid dreams. He makes a noise like a dying banshee, his seed spilling onto the floor, completely muted beneath the sharp cry, then clenches his hands in a death grip around Dean’s to still any further debauchery. “Sorry,” Sam squeaks, not even turning to _look_ at Kevin’s curious glance as he pants through the aftershocks, “Dean just worked through a sore muscle.”

Dean freezes in position, certain they’ll be found out now, but the steward seems to accept the flimsy explanation without a second thought, finishing with the last of the swords and then casually taking his leave with nothing more than a perfunctory bow.

His brother immediately slumps into his arms at the privacy, every muscle going slack as he forces Dean to hold him up as punishment for the stunt he just pulled. But Dean can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the obscene picture his brother makes like this. Or the events by which he got there.

“Holy shit,” Dean finally breathes out, unable to help himself, “did you just—?” Sam lets slip a wrung-out groan in lieu of a response, but he doesn’t really need an answer. Not after what he just witnessed with his own two eyes.

His brother does make some attempt at facilitating Dean’s pleasure, grinding back and mouthing wetly at his jaw as he fumbles his own cock out and starts rutting against Sam like a mindless animal, but it doesn’t take very much at all to follow him over that glorious edge. Gasping and panting like a dying man as he spills behind him.

An exhausted glance down reveals that they’ve managed to completely sully the barracks floors—though a quick swipe of Dean’s boots does render the stains a bit less conspicuous. They should be fine if given enough time to make their getaway. …And if a few knights happen to wander in here after them, before the evidence has a chance to air out? Well, Dean honestly doubts they’d be able to notice it over the rest of the sweat and stench of the place.

 


	8. Joust

Sam tightens the saddle girth around Impala’s belly with one last forceful tug, and then quickly dodges the broken foot she tries to give him in response. Too mired in his thoughts of misfortune to be bothered by the finicky steed’s tantrum. His worst nightmare is at hand far faster than he’d been able to prepare for it, and he can’t help but feel like he’d squandered what little time they’d had. Dean is to be married by tomorrow morning, husband to someone who isn’t _him_ , and Sam had wasted most of their last moments of freedom by pouting and hiding like a sullen child.

Impala knocks the side of her head against his, probably an attempt to apologize for her moodiness, and Sam breaks free from his melancholy to distractedly stroke a finger down her nose in forgiveness. She’s certainly the most temperamental horse Sam’s ever had the pleasure of dealing with, but she’s easily the most beautiful as well. As glossy dark as midnight with a mane like starlight to match. She was the pride and joy of John’s stables, hand-bred by the late king himself, and she’s never saw fit to be obedient to anyone other than Winchester royalty. Which, apparently, includes Dean, but not Sam—despite the technicality. Sure, she’ll nuzzle into his palm like she’s the sweetest thing to ever walk on four legs, and she’ll happily accept any treats he may bring her with an affectionate nicker, but the very instant Sam gets her between his thighs, she’s as colicky as a grumpy newborn. She’s clearly fond of him though, so Sam’s half certain that she does it just to tease him.

“You’ll still love me when the king is married, right?” he whispers against her warm cheek. “We can go on rides in the mornings and make him jealous together.”

Impala jolts her head down with a snort, and Sam laughs as he finishes tightening her gear. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The celebratory joust in honor of the royal wedding has been the castle’s worst-kept secret since Bobby had thought throwing a surprise party for Sam’s twelfth birthday would be a good idea. He can still remember the look on his adoptive father’s face when he’d managed to correctly guess every aspect of the celebration, down to the flavor of the cake. Dean had found the entire thing _hilarious_. Even John had been proud. Sam smiles at the fond memories, letting his mind return to the celebration at hand as he brushes a hand over Impala’s flank. Though he’d grant that most of the awareness of the event is probably his partner’s fault. There are only two riders allowed from each kingdom this year, and Charlie was so ecstatic to be chosen for the tournament that she’d spent almost the entire last week adding her own subtle touches to Winchester’s heraldic crest. Sam does have to admit that the shimmering rainbow pentacle makes for quite a spectacle on her mount’s caparison, but at least half the wedding guests had caught an eyeful of her colorful preparations—and an earful as to the reasons why.

Another squire approaches him, rather insistent this time, and despite the fact that Sam usually prefers to tend to his steeds himself, he’s forced to hand Impala off so that they can get her into position. He winds his way through the other competitors after her though, keeping one eye on his brother’s prized mare until she’s settled at the edge of the field. This is the first year that Dean isn’t competing among the other knights—what was considered acceptable behavior for the crown prince is apparently far too childish for a king—and Sam is riding Impala as a show of respect more than anything else. At least one of them should be allowed to represent their kingdom in the games. Hell, it’s practically tradition by this point. Winchester’s ruling family being even more skilled in horsemanship than their notably impressive army has become somewhat of a running joke ever since King John took the throne. Plus, the destrier is a steadier mount than Sam’s own Charger anyhow, and less likely to fright due to a shattered lance. That particular act only counts as a win if he can actually stay in the saddle afterwards.

Most of the other champions milling about are unknown to Sam as he weaves his way among them—by face, at least, he’s certainly done his research on their names—but the two knights from Ifreann stand out like a pair of jagged, obsidian cliffs in their head-to-toe black ensembles. Ser Cain and Ser Abaddon, he’s heard—though Sam’s not sure which is which. One, a monstrously intimidating Amazon with a shock of long, red hair and a laugh like a death knell, and the other, a quiet, bearded man with features as sharp as a hawk’s and an intelligence hidden deep within his eyes that’s likely twice as deadly.

Sam quickly glances away before they can notice him staring and his gaze catches on the only other familiar face in the crowd. Princess Anna. Although he’s surprised to see one of her sisters by her side instead of the much more common Castiel. The prince is usually first in line to represent the house of Neamh during any display of physical skill, but Sam can’t spot him among the other riders this time. He grants a curt nod to the women, saddling up their twin bay mares, and Anna silently gestures up into the stands without Sam even needing to voice the question aloud. Perhaps he’s become predictable. He tosses a quick wave to where Castiel is seated among the throng of his siblings, and the prince sends a warm smile of his own back in return. It’s likely that he’s recused himself from the joust as a show of camaraderie, considering Dean’s subtle expulsion from the games, and Sam mentally beats himself over the head for the brief flash of ludicrous jealousy. Cas is his friend, and Dean is getting _married_. If Sam should be envious of anyone, it’s the princess seated to his brother’s left.

And speaking of…

Lisa tosses her head back in laughter at something Dean whispers into her ear, glimmering like a member of the fae court as the sun catches the pale silk of her dress. Her bright grin is just as stunning as every other inch of her graceful beauty, and Sam hates the heavy coal of jealousy that burns in his belly at just the sight of her. Regal, and elegant, and stealing his rightful place at Dean’s side without even being aware of it. Lisa rests a delicate hand on Dean’s forearm, but he doesn’t reciprocate in kind. Sam wrings whatever drop of solace he can from that, at the very least.

A loud bleating from the trumpeters indicates the start of the tournament—the brassy fanfare inciting a swelling cheer of excitement from the audience, and a general scurrying from the knights who’ve found themselves unprepared for the sudden commencement. Sam silently curses the fact that he’s one of the few who’d lost track of time. He sprints over to Impala, swinging up into the saddle and looping the reins around his left hand. The squire standing at his thigh hands up his shield and his helm, and Sam quickly arranges both in place. As if avoiding being the last one fully armored will somehow make up for his earlier dallying.

The knights and their horses finally get settled on their appropriate sides of the field, and Sam pulls in a deep breath in preparation for the challenge ahead, hefting up the heavy lance handed to him and locking it securely under his arm. The black and silver of Winchester’s royal colors swirl up the shaft in a unnecessary display of ostentatiousness and Sam tries not to wince at the knowledge that all eyes will soon be on him and his ridiculous get-up. As the landed kingdom’s most experienced champion this year, he’ll be riding in the first match. And though he grudgingly relents that the honor does require some due of pomp, it doesn’t mean he has to be comfortable with the practice.

The crier announces his title, then his opponent’s, and Sam kicks Impala into a trot—with a quiet plea for her to behave under his breath. Thankfully, she seems intent on giving Winchester a good name for the time being and responds to his commands with an easy grace that belies her usual stubbornness. Although, Sam supposes that under the current circumstances, her sudden capitulation might just simply be a different flavor of stubbornness than usual. She’s that kind of horse.

He cuts a glance his brother’s way as he rides by, managing to catch the quick wink Dean throws him in passing, and Sam suddenly can’t help but return the flippant bit of attention. He turns Impala back around, guiding her up to the king’s box, and then switches his gaze to Lisa at the very last moment. Enjoying every second of Dean’s subtle pouting at the intentional affront.

“Your Royal Highness,” Sam begins beseechingly, having to practically shout to be heard through the metal contraption on his head. “Would you do me the great honor of bestowing Winchester’s champion with your favor?”

It’s the polite move to make—a sign of respect for the new queen, regardless of Sam’s own personal feelings—and Lisa lights up at the attention, fluttering a hand to her breast in honest appreciation for the gesture. “It would be an immense delight,” she announces regretfully, “had I not already promised my loyalty to the champion riding for Braeden.” Then she raises her voice, speaking to the crowd at large as well. “I felt the need to advocate for my homeland one last time before this beautiful kingdom becomes my _new_ home.” It’s the perfect thing to say in response, and Sam can even pick up the sounds a few bystanders cooing over the generosity and eloquence of the princess.

Sam nods in answer, tipping his lance back from Lisa’s reach. He could easily leave it at that, a perfect showing of etiquette on both their ends, but something within him pushes forwards. “And what about you, Sire?” he asks brightly, swinging his weapon over to his brother. Needing to feel Dean’s eyes on him for just a moment longer. “I couldn’t possibly lose if I had the king’s blessing at my back.”

Dean startles at the unexpected request, and then quickly colors at the implication. Only content to tease and pester if he isn’t the one being played for a fool. “Terribly sorry to disappoint you, _good Ser_ ,” he grits out with a feeble attempt at civility, “but I’m not in the habit of carrying ribbons on my person.”

“Perhaps a bit of cloth then?” Sam ribs him good-naturedly. There’s a ripple of scattered laughter from the surrounding stands as his brother does his best not to growl at him like a hound. Sam shoves his visor up with one arm so that he can meet the animosity with a shameless grin. “I know for a fact that isn’t His Majesty’s best shirt.”

Another warble of amusement emerges from the crowd, and Dean glares daggers at the lot of them as he tears at one of the faded bits of embroidery hanging loose at his cuffs. “I can understand why you’d be so desperate for luck,” he needles loudly, in an obvious attempt to turn the tables on Sam. “Perhaps with a skilled horseman’s favor, you’ll actually manage to stay on your mount this time.”

And even knowing what his brother’s playing at, Sam still can’t help the indignant flush that abruptly rises in his cheeks. “That was _once_ ,” he squawks defensively. “I was sixteen!” The accursed spectators suddenly turn on him like the traitors they are. Clearly delighted with this new bit of information, if the raucous howling is anything to go by.

Dean preens under the weight of Sam’s mortification, tying the piece of sleeve around the tip of his lance with exaggerated care. “You have my favor, Ser _Sammy_. Maybe with a man’s blessing, you’ll come out victorious.”

Sam submits to his brother’s teasing with the utmost forbearance, trying to hold onto the slight indignation as he rides out to his first match...but he does come out victorious.

Over and over again.

He’d never admit it out loud, but he’ll be damned if that shred of Dean’s shirt doesn’t bring him every bit of strength he needs. Or maybe it’s Impala, riding straight and true under Dean’s watchful gaze. She wins half of their matches herself, twisting or feinting at the last possible moment to throw their opponents’ mounts off-guard. Allowing Sam to take advantage of the split second of hesitation, crashing his heavy lance through shield after shield without fail. Or maybe it’s Sam’s own stubborn pride. Unwilling to display even the slightest hint of weakness with Lisa watching at his back. He takes Ser Matthew of Braeden down so fiercely that the man’s horse rides on for almost half the pitch without him, completely unaware that its rider had been so briskly unseated.

Knight after knight succumbs as the day runs on. The princesses from Neamh make for surprisingly formidable challengers in the games, as do a handful of stand-outs from the various competing lands, but the dark Amazon from Ifreann is the contestant to watch. Her partner—Ser Cain, Sam had finally been able to ascertain—loses out far earlier than he’d have expected, and from barely a passing blow. Tumbling from his stallion with a graceful roll, and then back on his feet twice as easily as he’d strolled from the track in uncontested defeat. If Sam was a novice to the sport he’d almost think that the man _wanted_ to lose, for whatever value that’s worth, but he can’t imagine a forfeit like that would sit well on a ruler as ruthless as the Bloody Butcher. And Sam doesn’t even want to contemplate what Lucifer’s disappointment would look like for one of the knights serving under him.

Charlie finally suffers defeat, late in the last dregs of the tournament, at the hands of the remaining champion from Styne. Sam doesn’t recognize the man on sight, but the fair-haired knight is quickly bested by Ser Abaddon before he can worry himself too much over possible strategies. The last few hold-outs eventually fall, either under his lance or Abaddon’s, until the final match leaves Sam staring down Ifreann itself, with all the banners of Winchester behind him. It means something, even in a game as frivolous as this. A darker connotation to the bout that neither of their lands can overlook. A reflection of the very wars that brought these two kingdoms to a head not so long ago. Sam is riding for his father’s memory now—for John the Warrior King—and every person in the stands knows it. Well, knows _part_ of it at least.

The crier announces the final engagement, spurring them both into position on their opposing sides of the field as they await the final word. The sun sits high overhead, shining rather mildly considering the season, but still roasting Sam in his metal armor like a Christmas goose. His bangs are thankfully keeping most of the sweat out of his eyes, but his hands aren’t as sure around Impala’s reins as they were a few hours ago. Losing his grip on his shield now would be tantamount to asking for a lance to the chest. Abaddon doesn’t falter. Tall and dark and unmoving above her stallion’s saddle. Sam adjusts his feet in his stirrups, rolls his shoulders back, and sends out a fleeting hope that he looks half as menacing.

The start of the first round sends Impala racing off before Sam can even give her the command, veering sharply at the very last moment in her signature move—but Abaddon’s clearly been watching him as closely as he’s been watching her. She holds her own mount steady, yanking the reins back to compensate for the flinch, and then knocks Sam’s attack off-balance with a firm strike of her shield. They ride through to the opposite ends of the field, both fully seated and neither one the victor.

The second round brings Sam a wave of nerves. He’s less practiced on this end of the track, an unanticipated result of commonly unhorsing his opponents in the first round. There’s no actual, categorical difference on this side of the tilt, but the simple change in view carries with it unwanted second-guessing that he can’t afford. The second they’re given word, Abaddon charges right for him, letting her horse fly in a full-out gallop, and Sam holds Impala as steady as he can in kind. Replicating their erstwhile trick would be foolish at this point, and a test of sheer strength is all Sam can think of to give him an edge over the smaller woman. Sam’s lance hits her shield directly, but the Ifreann knight catches his left shoulder instead, violently smashing shield and reins out of his hand. He’s wrenched backwards in the saddle, arms windmilling as he slips ever more under Impala’s noteworthy speed, but the mare slows to a stop the instant she starts to feel him slide off, allowing him to clumsily regain his balance. He’d have fallen for sure if it wasn’t for the slight adjustment and Sam presses a gauntlet to her withers in thanks as she safely walks him back to his starting point. When he finally gets himself settled again and glances over his shoulder, Ser Abaddon is playing the strike off like a mistake, twirling and stretching out her wrist as if her grip was simply unsteady. But Sam heavily doubts that a warrior as tightly controlled as Abaddon appears to be could render a blow that ungainly by accident, even this late in the game.

Sam narrows his eyes behind his visor and comes to a decision. If she wants to play dirty, then he is absolutely fine with playing dirty. His lance splintered a bit during the last clash—he could easily recognize the subtle sound of the wood cracking from years of experience—but there are no external signs of damage to the naked eye. At least, not any that an audience member would be able to make out beyond the swirled paint. This is usually where Sam would exchange his weapon for a fresh one, relying on honor for his opponents to do the same, but apparently there’s no honor to be had here. He waves off the squire who inquires after that exact issue and hefts the weakened lance up under his arm. This round will be the last.

The crier shouts them off and they immediately charge at each other. Sam doesn’t intend to find out what foul ploy his opponent has planned this time. He waits until the last possible moment, then lets his arm go limp seconds before Abaddon can make contact, avoiding the blow to his injured shoulder and crashing his broken lance directly into the center of her shield.

It shatters apart like so much kindling, the existing fissure cracking open with just the slightest force, and the crowd goes wild at the display. Sam drops the useless fray of wood, then gratefully relaxes in victory, grinning at the stunned tension in the woman’s frame. He can’t make out her expression beneath her helm, but wide-eyed gaping is his best guess. That, or murderous glaring.

A few more squires run up to help him dismount, and Sam has his helmet off before his boots even touch the ground, relishing in the cooler air as he scans the stands for his brother. When he spots him, Dean is on his feet and beaming from ear to ear. He brings two fingers up to his mouth, and then a sharp, piercing whistle breaks out over crowd, picked up by a few other bystanders who add to the cacophony. Sam lifts a hand in a weary salute. He’s so worn-out he can barely stand, but the extravagant gesture almost has him heading for the king’s box anyway. A favored knight is usually rewarded with a kiss after winning a tourney, but Sam’s not quite exhausted or sun-sick enough to make that suggestion. The crowds would find it amusing. Dean’s _bride_ would not. He simply meets his brother’s eyes in a moment of grateful appreciation, then swivels his gaze over the rest of the stands until he’s caught cold by another stare. _Lucifer’s_.

The archduke is fixed on him again, just as fierce and unblinking as before, and Sam begins to fear for a reprisal. He did just defeat the man’s best knight in battle, perhaps _that_ was what all the staring was about earlier. Maybe he’d pegged him as a threat straightaway, and now that Sam’s actually bested Abaddon, Lucifer will make sure that he won’t be around to make that same mistake again.

 _Or,_ more likely, Sam’s been reading far too many fanciful tales and he’s allowing his imagination to run away with him. He submits to the ministrations of the squires surrounding him, breathing a little easier as they remove each piece of heavy armor, and lets his worries drift away. He’s being foolish. There’s no way an _archduke_ would have any vested interest in the outcome of a simple joust. Sam’s just unsettled from all of the staring. It’s possible that he’s been imagining the entire thing anyway. Dean’s always called him too sensitive.

And yet, when it comes time for the guests to make their way inside in preparation for the evening’s celebratory feast, Sam finds himself tarrying behind. The servants need a little help in clearing the field, and even manual labor sounds like a breath of fresh air compared to having to deal with the archduke’s disconcerting leering in an enclosed space.

Except for the way Sam’s muscles scream their protest as he haltingly pulls up the nearest tent stake. True, he’s not even sure he’ll be able to _stand_ tomorrow given the way his legs are complaining, but temporary paralysis is a small price to pay for one more moment of open safety. Even if Dean _is_ inside with Lisa, chatting and drinking and probably falling madly in love while Sam dawdles out here. He bites at the inside of his cheek and tries to ignore the way the pure ivory and gold of Braeden’s royal flags mix perfectly with the deep ebony and bright silver of Winchester’s striped canvases. Like they’re meant to be. Sam lets out a bitter snort as he tugs up another stake, collapsing half of the tent. Maybe he’ll be so weak and bed-ridden in the morning that he won’t even be able to attend the wedding. What a shame.

“I believe they have servants for that,” a man casually remarks from behind him, and Sam flinches at the sound—the low voice like a knife twisting into soft cork. He steels himself for the unexpected company, then turns around to come face-to-face with those same freezing eyes that have haunted him the last few days.

Lucifer.

Here and in the flesh. So close that Sam could reach out and touch him if he were so foolishly inclined. He’s dressed rather in the same manner as his knights were—dark, heavy fabrics closely fitted to the lines of his body. Though there isn’t a single inch of softness for the vestments to hide. From this close, Sam can make out the roughness of the man’s golden stubble, the lines of a life hard lived etched into his face as he squints slightly in the bright sunlight. He looks like a warrior even here, guest at a wedding, and Sam just stares dumbly at the noble in his midst. The archduke quirks an eyebrow at the protracted silence, but he can’t find it within him to even breathe, much less contribute to the sudden conversation.

But Lucifer seems to find his hesitance charming, given the way his mouth softens at the edges. “I can’t imagine the grand champion of such a tournament is required to pull down his own tents,” he says teasingly, his tone gentler than Sam would have imagined. “Unless Winchester’s customs are truly that different from my homeland’s.”

“It isn’t required,” Sam manages weakly, still thrown by the man’s presence. “I volunteered.”

Lucifer lets out a huff of subtle laughter at the explanation, and Sam can’t help but feel like the derision is aimed at him. The archduke is a tall, imposing man—roughly Dean’s match in size and breadth—yet Sam’s noticeable advantage in height doesn’t bring him any comfort in the face of the man’s presumptuous bearing. Like any single interaction Lucifer has will always turn out exactly the way he plans it, solely based on his desires.

Sam waits for a moment more, but when it becomes clear that the archduke is waiting for him to continue, he grows uneasy. “Is there something I can help you with, Your Grace?” he asks politely. There’s no need to antagonize a potentially deadly foe due to his own impatience. “Some reason you’re out here while the feast is being set up inside the castle walls?”

Lucifer steps forward, further into Sam’s space, but there’s no malice in the gesture. Just that thin veneer of ice that seems to hover around the man’s every move. “The pleasure of your company isn’t reason enough?”

Sam frowns at the statement. Lucifer doesn’t seem to be angry, unless he hides it surprisingly well, but Sam hasn’t done anything of note recently other than win the joust. If he isn’t here to stuff Sam in a bag and toss him into the winter sea, then there’s absolutely no explanation for why a noble of Lucifer’s caliber would be interested in spending time with a simple knight.

“You’re a beautiful creature, Samuel,” Lucifer says eventually, sweeping the bangs from his eyes with a flick of his fingers. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

Sam jolts back from the archduke’s touch like he’s venomous. Utterly floored. Of all the possible reasons he’d mulled over to explain the older man’s staring, desire hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Apologies, Your Grace” he stutters, thoroughly embarrassed. “I don’t mean to offend. I just wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s alright,” Lucifer says warmly, but there’s a coolness even in that. “What kind of sportsman would I be if I didn’t enjoy the chase half as much as the victory itself?”

Sam stiffens at the insinuation. “My intent was not to incite you into a chase, Milord.”

“And yet…” Lucifer smiles as he trails off, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. “You said you volunteered,” he continues, “why is that?” There’s another spike of joviality in the question—a little darker than the teasing he and Dean tend to go in for—but for all intents and purposes, he seems completely engrossed in Sam’s possible answer.

It’s unexpected, and more than a little alarming, to have Lucifer’s all-encompassing attention fixed on him like this. Softly seductive, but with an air of predatory mischief hovering just beyond the edges of his cool exterior. Sam can’t be sure which aspect of the archduke’s nature is the genuine one. If the nobleman is simply on his best behavior while he’s a visitor on foreign soil, or if the mercurial fluidity between the two temperaments is as much a part of his makeup as the unsettling staring is. It sends chills down Sam’s spine, either way.

“The squires were practically stumbling over their own feet to grab an eyeful of the preparations for the engagement feast,” he says after an awkward moment. “As I’ve already suffered through the ridiculous pageantry of a royal banquet more times than I can count, and have absolutely no interest in gawking at the spectacle like a country mouse, I thought I could be of more use out here.” Sam very carefully does not mention the fact that most of his decision was made in an attempt to avoid the very man in front of him.

“Well, then,” Lucifer says smoothly, “don’t let me stop you.”

Sam just blinks at him for another minute, gradually realizing that Lucifer isn’t actually offering to help, but is content enough to sit back and watch Sam do all the work. He tosses the archduke a tight smile, then privately rolls his eyes as he bends over and returns to his task. _Nobles_.

“After all, I certainly don’t mind the view.”

Sam straightens his back immediately, blood rushing to his face. It’s a simple enough statement, one that Dean himself has leveed against him countless times, but it feels like a betrayal coming from another man’s lips. He certainly doesn’t want to lead the archduke on—not when the simplest act could be misconstrued as enticement. Especially when it’s a nobleman’s word against his own. “I’m flattered by your attention, Your Grace,” Sam says tactfully, “but uninterested.” He takes a slow, deep breath, then twists around to face the older man again. “But if you’re in a particular mood, there will likely be plenty of willing partners at tonight’s feast. I’m sure someone of your standing won’t have any trouble finding an enjoyable way to pass the evening.”

Lucifer narrows his gaze like a beast on the hunt. “I’m afraid that I may have confused you,” he says, softly patronizing. Though the mild tone isn’t enough to overshadow the condescending nature of his words. “I’m not looking for one night with whatever flighty, simpering offerings Winchester can present me with.” Another step forward. “I’m looking for a partner, Ser Samuel. A spouse. I have been for a while. Someone strong enough to rule Ifreann by my side.” He reaches out a hand in a mockery of beneficence, like Sam should feel grateful just to be the recipient of such a gesture. “And after your demonstration at the games today,” he says appreciatively, “I think that someone could be you.”

“Then I apologize,” Sam spells out firmly, ducking away from the man’s touch for a second time, “but I’m going to have to respectfully decline.” He ignores the irritable way Lucifer’s fingers curl in on themselves in the empty air—holding onto as much dignity as he can as he retreats, leaving the majority of his work undone behind him. Sam keeps his head high and does his best to shake off the unexpected, and strangely abrupt, proposal.

He can feel the archduke’s eyes on him every single step of the way back.

 


	9. Feast

Dean has to find out the news from a pair of gossiping courtiers of all things. He’s passing down a hallway, searching for his brother who seems to have completely disappeared right after the joust, when he coincidentally catches wind of Sam’s name. Intrigued by the hushed whispering and smothered laughter coming from around the nearest corner, and never one to pass up a chance for eavesdropping, Dean silently tiptoes his way closer—ignoring how ridiculous he must look pressed up against the stone wall like he is—until he can make out the subject matter more clearly.

“Not Ser Samuel,” the first person says in disbelief. A woman Dean can’t identify by sound. “With _Lucifer?”_

“ _Yes_ ,” a more excited male voice answers. “He’s been spreading the word to everyone. I swear on my life.” Dean recognizes the second man rather quickly. Sully. One of the more colorful members of his father’s court. He actually used to watch after a young Sam whenever Dean and the king were needed elsewhere on royal business and Bobby was unavailable. To this day, Sam’s still oddly attached to the gently eccentric man. “They were talking out on the grounds earlier,” Sully continues enthusiastically. “I think that’s when they were planning it.”

“But they can’t have known each other for more than a few days,” the first woman replies scandalously. “At most.”

Sully lets out a high-pitched giggle, and from the distinctive warbling noise he makes right afterwards, he must be wiggling in excitement as well. “Apparently, the archduke was so impressed by his prowess in the games that he fell head over heels. It’s so romantic! Can you imagine? Our own Sam, a _duke_.”

And Dean has suddenly heard enough, practically fuming as he rounds the corner onto the unsuspecting busybodies. “I do hope you two have more practical things to do than spreading baseless rumors in my halls,” he spits.

The female courtier immediately drops her gaze to the floor at the sight of him and keeps it there in terrified obeisance, but Sully quirks his head in innocent confusion. Apparently, having known Dean as a child cuts through the kingly awe quite a bit. “No offense meant at all, Your Majesty,” he says, spreading his palms out in a placating manner, “but it isn’t a rumor. Multiple members of the court heard it directly from the archduke himself.”

“Heard _what_ from the archduke himself?” Dean asks with barely restrained annoyance.

Sully blinks at him guilelessly. “That he’s intent on proposing to Ser Samuel. It’s been the talk of the castle all afternoon.”

Dean’s entire world narrows itself down to one, tiny pinprick. He blinks rapidly to keep the darkness from edging out his vision. “And Lucifer said this to you?” he clarifies through unexpectedly numb lips.

“Well, he said it to Weems.”

Close enough. Dean jerks his head in a short nod, unwilling to deal with their well-intentioned but curious staring while he crumples in on himself. “You’re dismissed,” he says tightly. “Find something better to do.”

The two of them grant him a pair of haltingly awkward bows, and then scuttle swiftly down the hallway and out of sight.

The vile news hangs heavy in the air as Dean sucks in a shallow breath, trying to wrangle his emotions back under his control. It doesn’t matter. What they said isn’t—it can’t possibly be true. And even if it was, Sam would never…

Dean tightens his jaw and marches back in the opposite direction, letting his determination steer him. He has to find his brother. It’s all a misunderstanding. It must be. He’ll find Sam, and then he’ll explain everything to Dean. In fact, they’ll probably share a laugh over his unnecessary overreaction.

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts, running over worst-case scenarios again and again, that he almost runs directly over his fiancée turning the next corner.

“Majesty!” she blurts out in surprise, catching herself against his chest, and Dean quickly steadies her before she can tumble under the weight of all her skirts.

“I apologize, Lis,” he says distractedly—perhaps a bit more casually than etiquette would dictate, but thankfully she doesn’t seem to be put off by it. “I can’t stay and chat. I have to find Sam.”

But the princess simply smiles at his words. “Oh, so you’ve heard the news then?”

He instantly halts in his tracks, twisting back around with a suspicious stare. “ _You’ve_ heard the news?” he asks apprehensively. “Are we referring to the same news?”

“Perhaps?” she says lightly, quirking her brow in amusement. “ _My_ news is that, apparently, the Archduke of Ifreann is planning on making Sam his groom.”

Dean pulls in another sharp breath. “Right,” he says, anxiously smoothing a hand down the front of his doublet. “Exactly. So you understand why I have to put a stop to this ridiculousness immediately.” He ducks his head in a short nod. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Dean—” Lisa calls after him unthinkingly, then stiffens as she realizes her slip. “Your _Majesty_ ,” she corrects herself smoothly. “Why in God’s good name would you be intent on stopping it?”

He gapes at her like she’s just asked him why the sea is wet or the Earth is flat. “Because Sam doesn’t want to be _married_ ,” he manages clumsily. It isn’t the complete truth, but explaining the ins and outs of their tangled romantic situation would not endear him to his betrothed at the moment. “And even if he did,” he continues on a little more accurately, “he certainly wouldn’t want to be married to a man like that.”

Lisa grants him a knowing look. “You can’t refuse to bless the union just because you want your friend around, Majesty.” She holds his gaze until her point lands, then steps forward to rest a hand on his bicep, soothingly massaging her fingers over the rich material. “This is wonderful for Sam. He’d be a _duke_ , for goodness’ sake.”

“In name only,” Dean points out, feeling exceedingly childish at the insistence. “In some flimsy, left-handed marriage where every single one of his titles would disappear the instant that Lucifer left to frequent more fertile pastures.” He shakes his head firmly, slipping his arm from his fiancée’s grip as he solidifies the decision in his mind. “Trust me, I’ve known Sam all my life. He would never be interested in someone like Lucifer.”

“And how could you know that for sure?” she asks warmly, clearly indulging him.

“The man’s a _villain_ ,” Dean protests in exasperation. “Our kingdoms went to war over this very crown.” He wildly gestures up at his own head to drive his words home.

Lisa lets out an affectionate sigh. “Dean,” she says calmly, no hesitation over his name this time, “if all the realms held lifelong grudges over past political strikes, no one would ever interact at all. I think it’s very sweet that you’re so protective of your childhood companion,” she says, brushing a hand against his face, “but he is an adult. He can make his own choices.” Lisa tilts her head slightly, gazing up at him with far more kindness than he probably deserves. “ _And_ ,” she brings up pointedly, “if Lucifer is courting after a knight like Sam, then he clearly isn’t interested in the throne.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Dean, come with me to the banquet,” Lisa orders, with all the gentle dignity that comes from a lifetime of dealing with other royalty. She loops her hand through the bend of his elbow this time, effortlessly guiding him down the main hall. “I understand that you want to talk to Sam, but I’m sure he’ll be there.” Then she squeezes his arm a little, nudging him playfully. “You can sneak off for a moment after we’re done greeting all our guests. I promise I’ll do my best to hold them at bay.”

Lisa is practically beaming at him when he glances down at her, her grin open and carefree like she’s never been lied to in her life. Because she doesn’t even know what she’s just offered him. To be an active, though unaware, participant in her own cuckolding this evening. Dean swallows down the sodden lump of guilt and faces forward again. He can’t tell Lisa the truth. Not right now, anyway. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to be able to bring himself to do it at all. _There’s no need_ —a slithering, dishonest voice whispers in his head. _What she never finds out can’t break her heart._ And Dean knows that it makes him the worst kind of coward, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find himself agreeing.

Hell, he’ll probably be damned either way.

The great hall is already packed full to bursting by the time they get there, and Dean doubts even three quarters of their expected company has arrived yet. Few people are seated though, most are just milling around and talking amongst themselves. The late afternoon sun glows a burnt orange through the high windows, and a loud crack of boisterous laughter scatters over the crowd every so often, adding warmth to the otherwise humdrum scene. And yet, Dean would still rather shove an icepick in his ear than deal with these people all evening long.

Lisa doesn’t seem to share his reluctance though, dragging him over to charm a few of the more important guests, and Dean allows himself a fleeting sense of relief that at least one of them knows what they’re supposed to be doing. Though he can’t make out Sam above the crowd, despite how thoroughly he searches—and it really shouldn’t be hard given his brother’s absolutely ridiculous height. He blandly nods along to whatever he needs to be nodding at, but glances towards the main doors once every few minutes. His behavior over the course of the next hour is probably unbearably rude, given the subtle looks Lisa keeps shooting his way, but he can’t stop himself. Every second he’s wasting away in here, chatting over trade agreements and tariff practices, Sam could be _canoodling_ with their family’s most terrifying archenemy. Granted, Sam’s not much of a canoodler at the best of times, but Dean’s mind has clearly decided to skip over reason and head straight for hysteria.

He finally manages to excuse himself from a horribly dull rendition of some narrative epic he couldn’t care less about—delivered by the tiny, forgettable marquis of one of the tiny, forgettable islands littering the Indigo Sea—and is combing the crowd for Sam again when a familiar hand on his shoulder sends him startling.

“Hello, Dean.”

He lets out the breath his lungs are intent on holding captive, smiling lightly at Castiel’s voice as he turns around to meet the prince’s gaze. “I see you’re still rebellious as always, my friend,” Dean says warmly. “Good to know some things haven’t changed, at least.”

Castiel immediately plays the fool with an overly stiff bow. “I apologize,” he replies with faux solemnity. “You would prefer ‘Your Majesty’?”

Dean huffs out a mild laugh at his friend’s odd sense of humor, the smile on his face a little more genuine now. “Honestly?” he asks, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Not for all the gold in the world. Every time I hear it, it feels like an affront to my father’s memory.”

“I’m sure he’d be very proud of you.” Castiel’s expression is an earnest one, and Dean has to remind himself of the prince’s candor. He’s a bit of an odd duck—always has been—but Dean finds his manner to be a refreshing break from the constant equivocation in the rest of their lives. Castiel does seem to notice his fidgeting though, astute as he usually is, tilting his head at Dean’s constant scanning of the masses. “Looking for someone?” he asks curiously.

Dean’s mouth twitches in irritation. “Sam,” he states flatly. Although Castiel probably could have guessed that. They’re rarely all together like this without their third member in tow. Not to mention that Dean doubts the other man hasn’t heard his _own_ version of the rumors practically oozing from the castle walls today.

Castiel hums as he contemplates the issue at hand. “Perhaps he’s just washing up after the tournament,” he offers helpfully. “I can’t imagine that was an easy victory.”

“Well, you weren’t there to give him a run of it.” Dean says with a forced smirk, trying to pull himself out of his poor spirits and back to the present. “And I wasn’t there to distract him at an opportune moment so you could land a critical blow.”

The prince just quirks an eyebrow in his direction. “As far as I recall, it has almost always unfolded in the exact opposite way.”

Dean can’t hold back a real grin this time at the reminder of enjoyable years past. “Winchester soldiers are renowned for their _successes_ in battle,” he points out playfully. “I never claimed we didn’t fight dirty.” He chuckles a little at the amusing memories. “Plus, if you’re so easily diverted by a simple thrown pebble, then maybe we earned those victories.” Castiel levels him with a dry look, but very generously does not bring up the fact that the pebbles were usually aimed at his head. And Dean demonstrates his appreciation for that thoughtfulness by changing the subject ever so slightly. “No, I figured Sammy deserved to win for once,” he says with a sigh, “After all, a man’s ego can only take so many losses before cracking in some important place or other.” He grants his friend a casual shrug. “And I’ve got enough tournaments under my belt that another one would just be redundant at this point.”

Castiel snorts at his boast, then chews at the inside of his cheek, surreptitiously checking for eavesdroppers around them. “You know, you _could_ slip out into the halls,” he suggests with an innocence that belies the sly nature Dean knows the man keeps carefully hidden underneath his stoic demeanor. “I’m sure I can cover for you if anyone comes looking for the king.”

Dean claps a firm hand to his friend’s shoulder in gratitude. “Good man,” he says ardently. “We’ll continue this the second I get back from talking Sam’s ear off.” Castiel inclines his head graciously, and then Dean is off like a loosed arrow, swiftly slipping through the grand doors before anyone is the wiser.

He sticks to the lengthening shadows as best he can, treading silently in case any others are roaming these corridors. If one more person seeks to divert his attentions before he can find his brother, Dean might just strike the unlucky soul. He only makes it about halfway to Sam’s chambers before he can hear the stirrings of whispers again, letting out a sigh once he does. What is it with the secretive figures gossiping in his halls today? Dean is about to grab Sully by his ear and teach him a personal lesson about rumormongering _himself_ , when he belatedly realizes that the voices are different this time. Two men. Older. And speaking in much more sedated tones.

“…boy…all afternoon.” The first man’s hushed, rasping speech is familiar, but Dean can’t place it no matter how hard he strains his ears. He presses in closer, holding his very breath so as not to make a sound.

“…may be better ways. If we had handled…like I originally…he would already…” Dean frowns as the speaker trails off. This second voice is completely unknown to him.

“…not a good…running out of time, Your Grace.”

 _Your Grace_. There’s only one man bearing that title in his castle this evening—and he’s the exact man that Dean has a bone to pick with. He’s growing tired of this game anyhow, forcefully rounding the corner to see Lucifer tucked into an alcove and speaking furtively with another man further in. It isn’t until the second figure shifts into a beam of fading light that Dean can make out the face of his own advisor.

“Your Majesty,” Azazel instantly greets him, bowing deeply. “My sincerest apologies, I didn’t hear your approach.”

“Running out of time for what?”

If his advisor is surprised by what Dean has overheard, he doesn’t show it. “The Archduke was just inquiring as to how long your engagement celebrations will be continuing for.” He gracefully maneuvers himself away from Lucifer’s side, stepping forward to rest at Dean’s. “I was simply informing him that, regrettably, this is the final night.”

“Regrettably?” Dean echoes. “I think most would consider the wedding to be the _point_ of all these celebrations.”

“Of course,” Azazel replies smoothly, continuing on without missing a beat. “A simple slip of the tongue, Sire.”

Dean raises his gaze to Lucifer’s, trying to stop himself from outright strangling the man the way he so desperately wants to. “Do you have other plans?” he inquires coolly. Then can’t help but toss in a slightly more cutting jibe. “I had heard you were _quite_ fond of weddings.”

The archduke presses his lips together in calculating amusement, gleaning Dean’s intent easily. “Unfortunately, I’ll be leaving in the morning, as I have a heap of duties that need attending to back in Ifreann.” His gaze darkens and a vine of lasciviousness winds its way through his voice. “Although I might be able to stay for the ceremony, provided I had some sweet thing to keep me company.”

The veiled reference to Sam heats Dean’s blood. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he grits through his teeth, tightening his lips in a smile that’s as disingenuous as his forced cordiality. “We’re trying to limit the guest list of the actual ceremony to close friends and family. You understand.”

“Oh, of course,” Lucifer concedes, all simpering insincerity in return. “After all, you need to make sure there’s enough room for the _horde_ from Neamh.”

Dean has seen the way Lucifer behaves when he’s in the same room with King Charles. The archduke is icily contemptuous of the man at the best of times, and jealously combative at the worst. He tries to recall if there’s a familial bond between the two of them, but finds himself drawing a blank. There probably is. Almost every member of the gentry is related to each other in some distant way or another. An unpleasant byproduct of trying to keep the royal bloodlines pure.

Although given the man’s bearing, it’s possible that he’s simply unable to get along with anyone. _Other than Dean’s own advisor, that is_ —he thinks somewhat bitterly. And that’s if they _had_ simply been talking about his engagement. Though he doubts that particular conversation would have required a private whispering nook. They were more likely planning Lucifer’s not-so-secret proposal. Dean feels his nerves start to spit and hiss again at the odious thought. He needs to find out how much of this…this _scheme_ his brother is aware of—and if the answer is even a hair more than ‘absolutely nothing’, then Dean reserves the right to lash Sam to his bedposts for a full week for not alerting him to the matter earlier.

“Are you making your way back to the banquet, Sire?” Azazel asks after a short moment, trying to fill the gap of Dean’s extended silence.

He finally tears his eyes away from Lucifer’s. “No,” he says. “I’m headed elsewhere. There’s someone I need to check on.”

Azazel clucks at his shoulder, a soft sound that contrasts harshly with the way it makes Dean’s skin crawl. “I would advise against that, Your Majesty. It wouldn’t do for you to be absent from your own celebrations.” He angles his body, subtly guiding Dean back the way he came. “I’m sure that whoever it is in need of your attentions can wait.”

The statement isn’t untrue, and he chafes at the knowledge that his advisor is right. But abandoning his quest now would potentially leave Sam wide open for Lucifer to slip in and take his place. Dean can only come up with one course of action that will work in his favor. “You’re absolutely correct,” he says brightly, splitting his focus between both men. “And I wouldn’t _dream_ of leaving an important guest such as the archduke out here by his lonesome.” Dean lifts his eyebrows in a subtle challenge. “Come, sir. I insist.”

Lucifer placidly holds his gaze for a long while, then eventually submits to the checkmate. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Azazel leads all three of them back to the party, sticking loyally to Dean’s side the entire time, and Dean fights back the strong urge to shove the man away in unfounded resentment.

Thankfully, Dean is able to lose the archduke fairly quickly once they’re back inside the great hall, considering Lucifer wants just as little to do with him in kind. He manages to catch Lisa’s eyes over the churning crowd as he makes his way back over, but shakes his head slightly at her inquisitive look. The entire attempt was a predictable failure. He won’t be able to meet with Sam any time soon unless his brother strolls in here of his own accord.

Which he does, a quarter of an hour later, freshly washed and in far more appropriate attire than his earlier suit of armor. He’s favoring his left side though, from what must be a result of the joust, and Dean decides to go easy on him, despite the fact that he’s just barely made it in time for the actual feast.

Dean excuses himself from the princess’s side and intercepts his brother as swiftly as possible. “We need to talk,” he hisses under his breath, catching Sam around the elbow and dragging him to one of the lesser occupied corners of the room before he can take another step.

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“Don’t be smart with me,” Dean snips, leveling a finger at his brother’s face. “How much do you know?”

Sam purses his lips obstinately. “In general, or…?” Dean lightly smacks him upside the head, in no mood for games at the moment, and he finally capitulates. “ _Ow_ ,” he mutters, rubbing at his skull. “Alright. Fine.” Sam’s shoulders drop as he lets out a heavy sigh. “I know enough that I’ve been trying to avoid Lucifer all day long.”

So he _is_ aware of the impending proposal. Dean feels his heart sink a little in his chest. “You heard, then? From who?”

“It’s ‘whom’,” Sam corrects him offhandedly. “And apart from the horse’s mouth? From _everyone_. Apparently, it’s the only thing the castle is talking about.” He crosses his arms over his chest in irritation. “I do apologize.” he adds, his tone far too acerbic to be sincere. “It wasn’t my intention to upstage your engagement feast.”

“Fuck the feast,” Dean says dismissively.

“That seems unhygienic.”

He attempts to throw Sam an impassive look, but can’t rein in the briefest flash of a smirk at his brother’s quick wit. At least Sam looks somewhat pleased with himself. “So I gather you’re unreceptive to the idea,” Dean continues, trying not to sound too relieved at the notion.

“To put it mildly,” Sam says flatly. His eyes skitter off to one side, and Dean frowns in confusion before realizing that he’s eying the appetizer spread. Too polite to outright grab anything even though he must be starving, considering how he’s been holed up in his rooms the last several hours.

So Dean does it for him. Reaching back to snag a bunch of grapes and then dropping them into his brother’s palms. “Eat,” he orders fondly. “ _Then_ speak.” He waits for his brother to shove half the entire thing in his mouth before something pricks him as strange. “Wait,” he says, “what do you mean ‘from the horse’s mouth’?”

“It’s an expression,” Sam mumbles around a mouthful of fruit.

“I’m not an idiot, Sam.”

His brother sighs, clearly perturbed that Dean didn’t fall for the easy diversion. He takes his time swallowing, and then reluctantly meets Dean’s gaze. “Technically he may have sort of already proposed,” Sam admits quietly. “After the joust.” He shrugs listlessly, the corners of his mouth tipping down. “I said no.”

Dean huffs out a sharp breath, nettled at being the last one to know about all this. “The ‘duke’ thing wouldn’t even last, you know,” he insists on pointing out. An infantile act of jealousy he can’t manage to restrain. “You’re still commonblood under the law, a divorce would instantly revert you back to knighthood.”

Sam shoots him his most unimpressed stare. “You think I’m after his _title?”_

“What? _No_ ,” Dean grumbles sourly. “That isn’t what I meant.” He scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration, knocking his crown off-kilter. “I just want to make sure we’re both clear on this issue, since everyone and their mother seems to have their own opinion about it.” He squares his shoulders and looks Sam straight in the eyes, intent on making his thoughts on the subject known. “You are not allowed to go off and marry some asshole just because he asks.” Dean realizes his colossal mistake just as the words fly from his mouth. But it’s far too late to take them back.

“Allowed?” Sam hisses at him like a cobra, rearing back and using every single inch of his extra height. “I’m not _allowed?_ And that would be in contrast to you, right? Because _you’re_ clearly fine with marrying someone else.”

Dean tries to backpedal as quickly as possible. “Sam, you know that isn’t how I meant it.”

His brother doesn’t seem to be receptive to placation though, ire blazing in his eyes as he cages Dean against the nearest wall. He finds himself surprisingly thankful for the crowded party around them for the first time this evening, as it seems to be the only thing keeping his brother’s whispers from morphing into shouts. “How _did_ you mean it then, Dean?” he asks bitterly. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like the king has just given me an order.”

Dean aches to get a hand on his brother, every single part of his body screaming at him to comfort Sam. To console him the way he usually does. But there are too many eyes around. And not all of them are friendly. “Sam,” he says softly, trying to bring his brother down as best he can with just the sound of his voice. “It’s us, okay? You and me. Always.” He glances around the room, making sure Lisa isn’t paying attention, then brings his volume down even lower. “This marriage,” he continues in barely a whisper, “it’s necessary, not desired. You know that.”

Sam does seem the slightest bit calmer after his reassurances, but frown lines are still set into his face. “Do I, Dean?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

His brother lets out a weary sigh, taking a moment to slowly pull himself back together. “You haven’t told her yet,” he says quietly. “I was trying to give you time, but…” He shakes his head, looking anywhere but at Dean. “The details are beginning to worry me. Lisa is to be your _wife_. You’ll be sharing a bed. How are we possibly going to meet in private when she’ll be expecting to spend every minute with you?” He risks a glance back up. “I know I’ve been lenient on the subject these past few weeks, but something has to be done soon, Dean. You promised.”

“I know,” he says. “I know, it’s just—” Dean cuts off with a short intake of breath, bolstering himself before the foolhardy decision to tell his brother the truth. “I wasn’t expecting Lisa to actually have feelings for me,” he answers honestly. “Royal weddings are usually arranged around political advancement, not infatuation, and I didn’t think—” He swallows hard. “I don’t want to hurt her if I don’t have to.”

Sam lets out a disbelieving scoff. “So, what? You’re going to wait until after you’re already married to let her know about me? Because you think _that_ will go over better?”

Dean shifts around awkwardly, his eyes dropping to study the bend of his knees. “ _Well_ …”

His brother’s jaw drops open as he picks up on everything Dean isn’t saying. “You weren’t going to tell her at all,” he breathes. “You were planning on keeping our entire affair a secret.” Sam suddenly goes very still, the heat of his anger simmering down to a low hurt. “If Lisa doesn’t know about us, then how will we—?”

“There are ways,” Dean is quick to point out. He’s been expecting this question for some time now. “Royalty isn’t required to stick to the _strictest_ conventions of monogamy. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a king to spend the night elsewhere once in a while. …On those evenings I could come to you.”

And that’s all it takes for Sam’s eyes flash back up like all the fires of Hell have been lit within him. “Oh, so I’m to be your _concubine_ , then?”

“Of course not,” Dean says. “I’ve seen your attempt at dancing. You could never pull that off.” Sam’s arm twitches violently, like it’s taking everything in him not to punch the stone wall behind Dean’s head. Or, perhaps Dean himself. “Oh, come on,” he teases, “it was a joke.”

But his brother doesn’t look amused in the slightest. “ _You_ said,” Sam hisses, jabbing an accusatory finger at his face. “You said that your relationship with the woman we chose was going to be an _arrangement_. That the three of us would be discreet in how we handled it before the court, but that nothing would change between _us_.”

“Nothing _will_ change.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up so high on his forehead that they completely disappear beneath his bangs. “Seeing you for _one_ night every few weeks, behind your wife’s _back_ , is a very _big_ change, Dean.”

“Well what do you want from me, Sam?” Dean asks, any hint of levity gone from his tone. “You want me to lay everything out for her the night before our wedding? And what, just pray she doesn’t back out? Or, God forbid, tell someone else about us out of anger? Especially when all it would take is one misplaced word for the entire court to find out that we’re actually—” He cuts off abruptly, getting ahold of himself enough to realize where they are right now. “Well, you _know_ what,” Dean whispers quietly. Another quick glance around the room reveals that, thankfully, no one seems to have overheard anything they weren’t supposed to. “We are walking the razor’s edge here, Sam,” he continues. “More so than we ever were before.” He pauses at Sam’s look of resignation, trying not to wince at the sudden melancholy in those multicolored eyes. “Look,” he says, softer, “I’ll tell Lisa eventually. Of course I will. But as of right now, she thinks she has feelings for me. They’ll wane with time, and she’ll start feeling restless for another man’s touch, and I’ll tell her then. But for now—” Dean fights back the urge to reach out again, attempting to nudge his brother’s chin up with only his words. “People do foolish things when their heart is on the line, Sammy. If we tell her now, we risk losing everything. But if we wait a bit, just until we’re sure she won’t take it badly…” He tries to pack every single bit of sincerity he has into his gaze. It’s more sentiment than he usually goes for, but Sam is worth it. Sam is always worth it. “Can you do that for me? For us?”

“You’re right,” Sam says emotionlessly. “Everything you just said makes sense.”

Dean smiles at the concession, grateful that at least one of their problems is taken care of. “I’m telling you,” he promises, “her interest in me will fade quickly. After all,” he says with a slight chuckle, “they do say marriage is the most surefire way to cool a lover’s passions.”

“I’m not worried about _Lisa_ thinking she has feelings for _you_ ,” Sam says curtly, causing Dean’s weak attempt at a joke to fall flat. He clenches his jaw and tightens his hand around the empty, branching grape stem still in his palm. “I’m worried about the exact opposite.”

Sam lets out a low breath and finally moves away to take his place at the long table, situated with the other commoners at the far end, leagues away from the raised dais where the King of Winchester and his bride are to be seated…and standing there, surveying the entirety of the massive hall and everyone in it, Dean suddenly feels very, very alone.

 


	10. Lies

Sam rises with the sun the day of the wedding. A long evening of ducking both the archduke’s _and_ his brother’s gazes as he picked at his meal hadn’t left him in much of a mood for sleep, and once the sun broke over the Eastern Hills there wasn’t any point in pretending to any longer. But spending the long hours lying awake in the darkness of his chambers did achieve one thing of note. It allowed him to think. While he may not be thoroughly enthused about essentially welcoming the princess into his brother’s bed, Sam can’t pretend that his situation couldn’t be so much worse. A long night of ruminating on a series of maybe-ifs and what-could’ve-beens made him certain of that. He still had Dean’s love. Even if they were the only two men in the entire kingdom who knew the truth. And Sam still had his faith. In his brother and in his God—even if the two concepts tangled in his own mind sometimes. They had carried on in secret for years and his heart didn’t shrivel up and die in his chest. They could surely carry on for a few more.

And with the pale, grey morning shining in through his casement windows, Sam unexpectedly finds his insecurities somewhat diminished. As if the sober light of day is washing away any of his prior thoughts of doom. Gifting him with precious clarity. Because of course he’ll be attending his brother’s wedding. He’ll give Dean his silent support and even congratulate him out loud after the ceremony. He’ll watch him dance and drink and laugh with his new bride. And he’ll spend the evening alone—even though the king won’t. And then the next night, Dean will come to him. He’ll shower him with words of love and praise and thanks, and he’ll kiss Sam like he hasn’t seen him in weeks. He’ll cover Sam’s body with his own and worship every available inch of skin and bring them both to the heights of ecstasy, until lights are sparking behind their eyes, and then he’ll kiss Sam some more, just for good measure. …And then he’ll go back to his wife.

And in a few years’ time, if Sam can be patient enough, Dean will be solely his once again.

Sam swings himself out of bed with a renewed energy, stretching out his sore muscles before racing through his morning rituals in record time and tossing on the very best shirt he owns. The white one with the laces up the front. The one Dean likes. If he isn’t able to snag a moment with his brother before the actual ceremony, then he hopes it will suffice as apology enough until the actual words can leave his lips.

The grey of the sky hasn’t burned off into the bright, clear blue of morning yet, but Sam still jogs down the halls as if birds were heralding his every footstep. It’s early for most of the castle’s residents, but Dean has probably been up just as long as Sam has. Most likely would have been even without his impending nuptials, given the way they’d left things last night. Dean can’t ever sleep peacefully after they’ve fought, and Sam can’t help but smile at how well he knows his love. If he wants a moment alone with his brother, then this is the time.

He’s just past the kitchens, and quickly dismissing the thought of a filched snack, when a darkly-clad arm suddenly slams itself against the stone wall in front of him, blocking his way. When he pulls back in surprise, its twin makes itself at home on the other side, caging him in completely.

“Ser Samuel,” a too-familiar voice purrs at him sickly sweet. “Fancy running into you.”

Sam flinches away from Lucifer’s sudden proximity, the archduke leaning in so closely that he can make out every one of his spiked eyelashes. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Sam says uncomfortably, most of his brain power focused on trying not to squirm too noticeably, “but I’m on my way elsewhere.” He shifts against the wall, but the man’s arms stay locked in place. “Perhaps we can converse at a later time?”

The archduke simply chuckles at his offer, a strange sound with no warmth in it. “I think we’ll converse _now_ ,” he says firmly. “After all, you never answered my proposition.”

He blinks in confusion. “I gave you an answer yesterday,” Sam reminds him with a uncertain frown. “Out on the grounds.” He stretches his neck as far back as he can, but the wall hinders his escape just as much as the knave in front of him. He can’t get away without bodily _moving_ the nobleman, and Sam doubts that an act of such bald impertinence would end well for him. Given their respective standings.

Lucifer doesn’t seem bothered though, observing his nervous fidgeting with the same lazy nonchalance a cat might bestow a mouse before pouncing. “You didn’t give me an answer I liked,” he clarifies. “I’m here to rectify that.”

Sam stares openly at the archduke’s gall, trying not to show any weakness, despite the way his body suddenly wants to. He’s already halfway to quivering in his boots and Lucifer hasn’t even touched him yet. He can’t imagine how much worse this encounter would unsettle him if he didn’t tower above the man. “I said _no_ , Your Grace,” Sam says once more, doing his best not to let his voice waver. “I know you’re used to peasants falling at your feet, but just because I’m not of royal blood doesn’t mean that my words aren’t worth just as much as yours.” He puts as much gravitas into his tone as he dares, one last warning before getting physical. “Now kindly let me pass.”

But Lucifer just makes a sound deep in his own throat, viciously amused, and much darker than his earlier attempt at laughter. “Not of royal blood?” he repeats tauntingly. “Well, we both know that isn’t quite true, _Ser_ _Samuel_.” The archduke bores his icy gaze deep into Sam’s own. No hint of humor now. “Don’t we?”

He knows. He _knows_. Somehow he knows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam stutters breathily, his nerves suddenly jangling harshly. If his skeleton could move on its own, it would have already shivered itself out of his very skin by now, just to escape.

“You _don’t?”_ the archduke teases playfully. If sharks were playful. Or man-eating bears. Or demonspawn from the thrice-cursed Pit itself. “Well then, how about this?” he suggests. “I’ll tell you a little story, see if that can’t jog your memory, and then afterwards, all you have to do is give me a very simple answer. Are you ready?”

He doesn’t wait for Sam’s reply.

“Once upon a time,” Lucifer begins, moving close enough that his breath leaves an undesired wisp of moisture on Sam’s jaw, “there was a wickedly treacherous king.” His words are so low not even a passing servant would be able to make them out. Even Sam has to strain to hear him clearly. “And this king,” he says, “was married to an equally treacherous queen. After discovering the queen could not have children, the wicked couple decided to deceive their own people and all the other nobles of the realms around them. For the king was a greedy sort,” Lucifer spits, somewhat lost in his own tale if his clear bitterness is any proof, “and he didn’t want to hold up an honorable promise he’d made to take another land’s duchess as his consort. For doing so would lessen his power, you see, and he wanted to keep it all for himself.” The archduke lets his anger out on a low breath, removing one hand from the wall to trail his fingers over Sam’s throat. “So this wicked, greedy king sought out a pretty, young, commonblood girl that he could fuck. And fuck her he did,” he hisses into his ear. Sam can’t help but wince at the closeness, but bites at the inside of his own lips rather than utter a word. He lets the pain center him, refraining from striking the nobleman at such a crude mention of the mother he never knew. “He fucked her over and over again,” Lucifer continues, unaware or uncaring of Sam’s discomfort, “until she birthed him a pair of mongrel dogs. Now unfortunately for the king, the queen and the common girl both soon dropped dead from their own wickedness, so he was left to continue their vile scheme on his own. He dressed the first dog up as a prince,” he sneers, “trotting it around before the rest of the court and claiming it was his heir. Now, the second dog he didn’t care for much,” Lucifer mentions offhand, idly stretching his hand out around Sam’s neck as if it were actually a collar around his throat, “so he simply threw it into the kennels to live out the rest of its life as a common mutt.”

Sam swallows hard at the insult, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against the webbing of the archduke’s rough palm. It isn’t true. It _isn’t_. John had loved him. Sam knows that for a fact. Even before revealing himself as his father, the king had made that more than plain. But something about the blatant remark still cuts him to the quick. Unearths all his old vulnerabilities.

Lucifer tosses him a brazen wink and a click of his tongue for his troubles. “Here’s where the story gets exciting,” he promises, pressing himself even closer. Letting the cradle of his hips grind up against Sam’s thigh solely because he knows Sam has nowhere to go. Stone at his back and restrictive protocol at his front. Sam faces his eyes blankly forward and tries not to think of anything at all. “One day,” Lucifer says, weaving them ever further into his macabre tale, “a heroic and _very handsome_ archduke visited the land. You see, the king had recently passed away from his evil, just like his whores before him, and the first dog was to be wed to a princess from a neighboring kingdom. Now this archduke instantly recognized that a mangy dog shouldn’t be sitting on a king’s throne, nor be marrying such a lovely girl, so he revealed the truth to the king’s own guards.” Lucifer pulls back now. Nothing but death and ice and vengeance in his eyes. “And the entire land instantly realized what fools they’d been,” he says darkly, “letting a dog rule them all this time. So they grabbed the mutt by the scruff of its neck and dragged it out behind the castle walls and then beat it to death with sticks.” He lets his lips curl into a cruel smile, fixing Sam with that unnerving stare once again. “And they all lived happily after.”

Sam can’t move, can’t even begin to process the severity of what’s just been dumped in his lap, his heart galloping so fiercely in his chest that it might as well leap from between his ribs and save them all the trouble. _Oh God, he has to warn Dean._

“What’s the matter, Ser Samuel?” Lucifer coos. “Did you not enjoy the story?” He chuckles lightly under his breath. “Well, if you don’t like that ending, I suppose I have another.” The archduke clears his throat and picks up the telling again, ignoring Sam’s terrified look of bewilderment at where this new madness could possibly be headed. “In this variation, the heroic archduke was just _about_ to reveal the true nature of the mongrel sitting on the throne—condemning him to a rightful death,” he insists on adding, even in this version, “when he spotted the second dog, who was being treated as a pet and forced to perform tricks for the first dog’s amusement. Now the archduke instantly saw what a beautiful and noble and _obedient_ creature this second dog was.” Another brief squeeze around Sam’s windpipe underscores his words. “So he very bravely rescued it and took it away back to his own lands. And the first dog remained on his counterfeit throne for the rest of his doggy life, with his imbecilic subjects never the wiser.” Lucifer lets out a contented breath, finished with the story. “Now tell me simply, Ser Samuel. Which ending did you like the best?”

“…What do you want?” It’s the only thing Sam can force past his teeth, past the freezing numbness of his lips and tongue.

“Why, I should think that’s obvious,” Lucifer says. “I tried to offer my hand politely yesterday, but you weren’t having it. I had hoped we could have avoided a more… _forceful_ situation, but alas, here we are.”

Sam chokes at the sheer absurdity of those simple words, feeling his eyes flood at his own sudden helplessness. At how his entire life has been torn apart and thrown upside-down in the matter of a few short minutes. “You want me to marry you, and if I don’t, then you’ll accuse Dean—the _king_ ,” he corrects himself quickly, “you’ll accuse the _king_ of treason.” But it wasn’t quickly enough, and Lucifer grins at the familiarity in his slip-up.

“I’d leave out your part in all of this, of course,” he says, oh-so generously. “To protect you from the same fate. After all, what horrible punishment do you think they’d levee against your _brother_ once they found out the truth about him? That he’s nothing but a commonborn bastard, lying to his people’s faces just so he can greedily cling to his father’s throne.”

“To protect it from _you_ ,” Sam hisses wetly. “To protect the people of Winchester from the Scourge of the fucking North!”

The archduke doesn’t even flinch at his raised voice, deliberately stroking a single finger down the side of Sam’s cheek. “My blood is pure, Sam,” he says with utter calm. “Unlike yours. Unlike your deceitful snake of a brother’s. He’s going against _God_ himself by maintaining this charade. You both are. I think your own people of Winchester would liberate his soul from his earthly body for such an offense.”

Sam’s sensibilities twinge at the vile assumption that he would trade his brother’s life for his own. He has to tell Dean. He needs to find some way to escape Lucifer’s hold so that he can alert his brother of the archduke’s treachery and then— _Then_ … Sam’s mind races as he scrambles for a solution. Any sort of confrontation, from either Dean or himself, would result in Lucifer divulging everything he could to anyone who’d listen. No, he has no recourse other than outright repudiation. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” Sam croaks with unflinching determination, never having felt as much hatred for a single soul as he does right now at this moment. “Scream it to the rafters if you must. I’ll deny it to my dying breath.”

Lucifer simply laughs at his attempt at bravado. “And who do you think the gentry will believe? It will be your word against mine. A mere knight against an archduke.”

“If I revealed the truth about myself, it would be an archduke’s word against a _prince’s_ ,” Sam reminds him darkly.

The smile on that same archduke’s face could keep ice from melting. “Ah, yes. But that would just be corroborating my scandalous little tale, wouldn’t it? And ensuring your own demise alongside your false king’s.” He flicks a speck of lint off his doublet, devastatingly nonchalant. “I’ve been told that the sentencing for treason is not a pretty way to die.”

Sam chokes on a hitched breath as he faces the gradual realization that there’s no alternative. He’s lost. There is no possible way out of this thorny cage of his own making—his _family’s_ making—without ceding to Lucifer’s wishes. Not if he values Dean’s life. The Winchester line’s own hubris has finally caught up with them, and Sam must be the one to pay the price. If only because, otherwise, Dean would be. And as long as Sam’s heart still beats in his chest, he will not allow that to happen. “Why?” he whispers thickly, his head finally bowing under the weight of his own defeat. “You could have anyone you desire in your realm or in this one. Why me?”

“Because I want you, little prince,” Lucifer lays out plainly. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you trick Abaddon with that broken lance.” Something about that innocuous claim rubs Sam wrong, but he’s finding it far too hard to think though the crashing waves of misery currently intent on dragging him under. His entire life has just been snatched away, solely due to the capricious whims of a powerful man. But even more chilling is the knowledge that Lucifer had already been watching him closely enough to discover his little deceit. That he had seen, even from his place in the stands. And Sam had brought it upon himself. He had sealed his own fate by cheating like a spoiled child. Just so Dean’s eyes would stay on him for a moment longer. To make him proud of his victory. To make him proud of _him_. “And I always,” Lucifer continues, carefully nipping up the length of Sam’s neck, “ _always_ get what I want.”

Sam shudders at the assault, or at the thought of what awaits him later on. “I can’t just disappear,” he says dully. “There are people—Bobby, I have to tell him something. He raised me. He’d never believe—”

“The scholar has already received a letter in your hand, detailing your whirlwind romance with the powerful nobleman and our ensuing elopement. Apparently,” Lucifer chuckles, pressing forward to bite down harder, “it was love at first sight.”

“ _Dean_ , then,” Sam protests, wincing at the rough treatment. “He won’t…” Sam has to fight back a painful swallow at the truth of his own words. “He won’t let me leave so easily.”

Lucifer ignores him for a moment to force a muscular thigh up between Sam’s own, nudging up against the crux of his sex as if searching for a match for the hardness he’s digging into his hip. Sam’s never been so happy to disappoint in his life. “Do whatever you will to convince him,” the archduke says carelessly, letting another moist breath waft over his skin. “I trust you’ll come up with something…believable. You are a wicked little sinner, after all. I’ve seen the evidence of it myself.” He choppily thrusts his hips forward, contentedly chuckling to himself. “You’ve lied to your own people about your blood, little prince. Can you not lie to one more?”

He doesn’t say a word in response, but his inaction must read as submission because the archduke continues on. “You have an hour,” Lucifer informs him callously. “I’ll be waiting by the gatehouse. If you are not there at my side by the time the sundial crosses over, then your brother’s guards will be hearing _quite_ a story. If the king comes after or moves against me in any way, it’ll be the same.” Then he presses an incongruously gentle kiss to the blade of Sam’s jaw. “But if you make it there in _under_ that, it will go so much better for you.” And with that, and another lingering swipe of his tongue up his throat, he’s gone.

Sam just stands there for a long while, glued to the wall that was so recently his prison, letting his ragged breaths rattle their way through his chest. It doesn’t feel real. _Nothing_ does anymore. It’s like he’s still in that dreamlike state between slumber and waking, safely nestled in his bed and watching the pale morning sun crest its way over the horizon. Like he’s about to slip from his covers any moment, to get ready for the day and find Dean to—oh God. _Dean_.

He lurches away from the wall as a violent shudder makes its way through his frame. He has to find Dean. Sam stumbles down the corridor like a man who’s just been poisoned, his legs threatening to buckle underneath him as he staggers his way forward. He only has an hour. Less, now. He needs to find Dean soon, or he’ll never see him again.

Thankfully, or unthankfully, Dean is the one who finds him.

“Sammy, there you are,” his brother greets him brightly as he comes around the next corner. He catches up to him swiftly, a charming little hop to his walk in his haste. He’s half-dressed, untucked shirt loose over a pair of white trousers, and Sam’s heart throbs weakly at the sight. The king shouldn’t be wandering the castle in such a state of indecency, but he must have ventured out just to find him. “Look,” Dean says, raising a hand to graze Sam’s chin, “I’m unhappy about how we left things.”

He’s talking about last night. Dear God, he’s still talking about last night as if nothing has happened in the interim. As if Sam’s entire world hasn’t just come crashing down around him.

“I know you were upset,” his brother continues, “and rightfully so.” He fixes Sam with a beautifully crooked little smile. “But I don’t want this to set a precedent between us,” he says. “You come first, you giant dolt. _Always_. And I promise no marriage will change that.” Dean pulls him down into his arms, and Sam curses his weakness at going so easily. “Know that, at least,” he whispers into his hair.

“Dean—” Sam croaks weakly.

His brother shushes him gently. “I don’t have much time. Maybe a half hour at most before they’ll be expecting me back.”

“Dean, I have to tell you something.”

“The consummation,” he says hurriedly, ignoring Sam’s faint protest, “it’ll have to take place after the reception, but I want you to be first. Please. I can’t—” He gestures at his own crotch, but Sam had already caught his meaning. There’d be no excuse for Dean not being able to perform on his wedding night. He can’t spill seed before then, as it would be far too risky to simply _hope_ that he’d be able to stand at attention again. “But I want to make you come,” Dean breathes into his ear. “God, I want to make you feel so good. Let me make you feel good, Sammy.”

Sam wants to soak up his every touch, wants to drown in the feel and smell of him like he’d never need for air again. But he can’t. He can’t or Dean won’t believe his lies. “I’m marrying Lucifer.”

His brother stiffens abruptly at the insane announcement, and then slowly pulls back to regard him. His voice is devastatingly quiet. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sam says tightly, carefully disentangling himself from his brother’s embrace. “I’m marrying the archduke because I’m in love with him.”

Dean doesn’t do much more than stare at him, pulling in a long, deep breath as his eyes turn cold as stone. He doesn’t even twitch an eyelid. “Is this about Lisa?”

“No,” Sam responds, but his brother is already off on his high horse.

“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean snaps. “Are you truly this childish?”

“It’s not about Lisa,” Sam says again, but Dean just waves off his statement with a dismissive flip of his hand. “We’re leaving together,” Sam impresses, trying to get the concept through his brother’s thick skull. “Right now. Back to—” He suppresses a shudder at the thought. “Back to Ifreann.”

Dean scrubs an angry hand over his unshaved face, glaring daggers at Sam from under his eyelashes. Then, after a moment, he lets out a harsh sigh through his fingers. “Alright, you’ve made your wretched point. You’re upset, I get it—”

“Dean, you’re not listening.”

“—but you don’t need to throw a tantrum like an overindulged infant anytime you don’t get your way.”

Sam just barely resists tearing his own hair out of his head in frustration. He’s running out of time. Hell, he doesn’t even know how much he’s got left, and Dean still doesn’t believe him. _Of course he doesn’t_. Even Sam would never buy such a ludicrous lie if their places were reversed. But if he doesn’t manage to convince him, then his brother will hang from the gallows, or he’ll burn at the stake, or taste the sharp edge of the executioner’s axe. Torn apart by his very own people. If Sam wants to save Dean’s life, he’ll have to break every single part of him.

“Lucifer is willing to give me everything I need,” Sam says stiffly. “Everything I _want_. Everything you can’t.” He tries to calm his breathing, tries to look like he isn’t one slight breeze from falling to bits. “Or won’t,” he adds coldly. Dean flinches at the barb, brows narrowing down into hesitant confusion as his conviction weakens just the slightest bit. Sam sinks his claws into the opening and plays the ace up his sleeve. “He loves me more than you do.”

His brother hadn’t been prepared for this. He’d come to Sam this morning with an open heart, seeking reconciliation, not expecting to be blindsided by such an attack. Dean hasn’t had time to build up his walls yet, and his eyes are still unguarded enough that Sam can see his own words pierce straight through the deepest part of him. They’ve known each other their entire lives. He’s been privy to Dean’s greatest fears. His doubts. The purest measure of his soul. His uncertainties as well as his dreams. Sam just never, _ever_ thought he’d have to use them against him.

Dean reflexively lifts an entreating hand, then lets it hang in the air between them for a moment before awkwardly dropping it again. “I’ll call it off,” he says roughly, his voice a bare shade of its usual self. “I’ll call the whole wedding off. Right this minute.”

“Dean, there’d be a scandal.”

“To _hell_ with the scandal,” he growls. “Let the court twitter like the frivolous songbirds they are.”

Sam has to leave. _Now_. There isn’t much time left. And the faster he’s gone, the safer Dean will be—but he takes one last selfish moment just for himself. Doing his best to memorize the color of his brother’s eyes, as green as sunlight through glass. The soft scratch of his voice, like a cape of the finest silk brushing over a gravel road. It’s the last time he’ll ever hear it. It’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance. “You found yourself a respectable spouse,” he forces out with grim finality, “and so did I.”

“You said no,” Dean sputters, the last grasp of a desperate man. “At the banquet last night, you _told_ me you refused his proposal.”

“I was playing coy, Dean,” Sam lies. “I had to make sure Lucifer was serious enough about his offer that he’d ask me twice.” He swallows hard around the ache in his throat and forces himself to twist the knife. “The way you never did.”

Dean gapes at him like a fish suffocating in air. “I couldn’t—”

“You _could_ have,” he says coldly. “No one knew we were brothers except for us and our deceitful father, and _he’s_ resting at the bottom of the Frozen Sea. You could have had me as your consort. No member of the court would have challenged your word as king. We could have been happy together, but you tarnished everything we had. Everything we _were_. Out of cowardice.”

Sam has to shut his eyes against the frantic panic in his brother’s gaze as Dean latches onto his shirtfront. “I’ll do it,” he pleads pitifully. “Sammy, I’ll do it.” He reaches out once more, his hands blindly scrabbling over Sam’s face as he supplicates like a beggar. “You’re right. I’ll make you a baron—no, an earl, like we planned before, and I’ll—”

“It’s too late,” Sam forces past uncooperative lips. He feels numb from his head to his heels. “Lucifer is willing to marry me, despite my common status. He isn’t ashamed of the circumstances of my birth or of what I am to him.” Sam cruelly yanks his face away from his brother’s grasp, and then raises his chin in his best imitation of haughty arrogance. “And the archduke can give me what I deserve. A title, like I should have been born to. Like the one our father unfairly kept from me.” He steels himself against the sheer, naked horror of what he’s about to say, and then tells the greatest lie of his life…

“I choose _him_.”

The declaration comes out as barely a breath of air, but Dean flinches back from the words as if he’s been struck. “Do you?” he whispers brokenly. “Is it as simple for you as that?” There’s a long, strained moment of silence, aching and horrible in its duration, until the betrayal finally warps Dean’s features from desperate disbelief into an ugly rage. “Well, _fine_ ,” he snarls wetly. “Good to know where you truly stand before I squandered any more affection on your faithless soul.” His brother blinks back a sheen of angry tears, then dismisses him with a curt flick of his wrist. “I don’t want you at my wedding,” he croaks. “Scurry back to your master’s side like the fucking dog you are.”

Sam hesitates in turning, every inch of him desperately yearning for one last glimpse of his love’s cherished countenance.

“ _Go!”_ Dean roars, his walls slammed firmly in place now as he shuts out every bit of emotion from his gaze. “Go fawn over Lucifer until he bestows you with the status that I can’t! Use that talented mouth of yours if you must! God knows it was the only thing _I_ wanted you for.” The insult is cruel enough to unstick Sam’s feet and he forcibly drags himself away from his brother, each step pulling him further and further from his living heart. “I just hope you can hold onto that precious title of yours!” Dean calls out after him, the poisonous barbs catching against his retreating back. “Pray that your new husband finds the clumsy fumblings of a gawkish peasant boy charming enough to actually keep you around for longer than a handful of years! Because you will _not_ be welcome back here, Sam! Do you understand me? I never want to see your traitorous hide in my kingdom again!” Sam finally makes it to the end of the hall, rounding the corner archway to the sound of the very last words he will ever hear from his brother’s lips. “In fact, I regret every damn bit of kindness I ever _wasted_ on it!”

Sam takes four more steps, then slumps against the unforgiving stone the minute he makes it out of Dean’s sight, letting the breath punch out of his lungs with a wretched sound. He’s done it. He succeeded. He saved Dean’s life. Protected him from the ravenous monster his brother didn’t even know was lurking in the shadows. He’s a hero, truly. The defender of the Winchester line. Dean is safe, forever and always, because of him. All because of him.

Sam makes it all the way to the castle gates before the tears start to fall.

 


	11. Bells

Dean’s wedding is beautiful.

White astilbe flowers drip down from the very walls, woven into and through every spare bit of space that the castle chapel affords. An exquisitely gilded carpet runs lengthwise down the aisle, flowing over the sets of steps like a river of molten gold. Hymnals are sung gentle and low under the archbishop’s word’s. Lisa’s gown, pure as fallen snow, glimmers under the soft candlelight emanating from each sconce lining the walls. The entire affair is quiet and delicate and serene, and Dean has never felt more out of place in his life.

He pulls in a breath when he’s asked to take the woman before him as his wife, a split second of hesitation that no one notices. _Sam would have noticed_. Dean bites sharply at the inside of his cheek, unseen, and rips the errant thought from his mind before his rage can boil over. His voice is even and mellow when he finally says, _“I do.”_ Lisa answers immediately, and with a grin that could warm an entire suite of rooms. Dean doesn’t feel much more than the vestry’s slight chill.

She’d marked it, of course, that his so-called dearest friend was nowhere to be found amongst those seated in the pews. The conclusion she’d drawn had been inevitable. “We’ll have him visit from Ifreann,” Lisa had said sweetly, under her breath and for their ears only. Then she’d placed a hand on his arm in an attempt at reassurance.

“We will not,” Dean had replied decisively, and just as hushed. He had been saved from her cautious look of concern by the beginning of the officiation.

Now, as they exchange rings, the archbishop pronounces them husband and wife before God, and Dean feels all of his emotions fade and wither in the chapel’s drafty air as he leans down to kiss his bride for the very first time. He’s married now. King eternal. Safe in his role from now on, despite the secrets of his blood. He has no need to worry about Winchester’s fate ever again. This marriage has truly been a godsend. Bells are chiming brightly in celebration of the event, yet Dean hears nothing but dented bronze banging against tin.

There’s a rising crest of polite applause as he and his queen descend the chapel steps. As they make their way down the woven river of gold, Lisa’s delicate hand tucked around the bend of his arm. Many of their guests bow, a few grin brightly in support, and one vaguely familiar figure even claps him on the back. Dean notes none of their faces. He barely remembers to throw on a neutrally pleased expression, fixing it to his features like a theatrical mask. It wouldn’t do for one of the assorted gentry to catch a slip of Dean’s true emotions on such a happy occasion. It could raise questions better left buried. Perhaps if Dean leaves them in the soil long enough, he might be able to forget them as well. He lets out a snort at the unlikelihood—easier to forget the cadence of his own name—and Lisa squeezes his elbow in light curiosity.

“I’m just happy, Lis,” he lies with an unconvincing smile; Dean knows he’ll be ripped open and heartsore until the day he dies, but there’s no need to subject his bride to the detritus of his recent betrayal. “That _you_ are the one in this with me,” he continues as they round the corner back into the castle proper, finally safe from the eyes of their assembled company for one, altogether too-brief moment.

“You _were_ the one who proposed, Dean,” Lisa says warmly, a subtle smile playing at her lips at the memory, and Dean feels a spike of guilt spear through his innards at the reminder. He’d brought her into this. Cruelly tricked her into a loveless marriage, however unknowingly at the time, to selfishly protect his own interests. And he’ll never be able to return her affections, not with Sam— Dean’s breath hitches as his thoughts stutter to a halt. That’s all dust in the wind now. There’s no point in the knee-jerk screed of self-flagellation any longer. Sam is gone. Already on a carriage back to Ifreann with his new love. With his new _mark_. Maybe he’ll bewitch Lucifer as well, profess his love and undying loyalty, only to leave him all sucked dry and emaciated in his wake when he eventually jumps ship for a better option. Dean can’t help wishing for that, at least—and then there’s a strange moment where he can’t decide which of the two villains in his life he’s actively rooting for. They deserve each other, that’s for sure.

And as for Dean, there’s nothing stopping him now from treating his new wife with every ounce of respect she deserves. Nothing, perhaps, except for the foolish pinings of his own twisted heart. Still longing for the touch of a traitor even now. Dean tamps down the feckless longings as tightly as possible. He can play at love. No need for Lisa to doubt his intentions when there isn’t a reason for it. If all Dean can do is bring her peace, then he can’t imagine a more noble cause. To protect his people and his queen from the two scoundrels in the north. Maybe eventually, he’ll even manage to fix himself as well.

They’re ushered off to their reception far too soon for Dean’s liking, a few of his pigeon-breasted wedding planners flitting around ahead of them as they lay out the final touches to the great hall. Their guests greet them merrily here as well, even greater in number than the relative multitude invited to the ceremony. The morning’s grey had worsened into heavy storm clouds by early afternoon and fat raindrops are now clinging and sliding down every pane of the castle’s mullioned windows, but the hall is decked with delicate adornments nonetheless. As if the very decorations themselves are intent on celebrating despite the weather, the pale colors twinkling under the room’s torches where the faint light of the sun doesn’t hit them.

Dean is congratulated so many times by so many faceless royals in the next few hours that the constant words of thanks forced from his lips eventually warp into meaningless heaps of babble. His face ends up frozen into an expression of polite contentment that he hopes never flickers into trapped despondency. Waiters constantly rush to and fro, plying him and Lisa both with samples of the rarest and most exquisite morsels and _hors d’ouvres_ from every corner of the farthest lands. Lisa seems to enjoy them. To Dean, every bite tastes of sawdust.

The dancing starts later in the afternoon. A few of the more inebriated guests venture out at first, followed by a larger group after the first clumsy attempt at a waltz. Lisa begins eying the revelers covetously somewhere between the fourth and fifth dances, but quietly remains by his side when Dean doesn’t show any signs of desire. Though he can only resist for so long before he begins to feel like a lout. He may not be in the mood for making merry himself, but depriving his bride of this small bit of joy would be a terrible way to start off a marriage. Especially one that seems to have become abruptly more genuine after his horrific disaster of a morning.

He offers his hand out to Lisa with a faint raise of his eyebrow, and she grasps his fingers so eagerly that Dean can’t help the slight bit of fondness that runs through him. It’s as he’s pulling his bride to her feet that he’s hit with a sobering realization. He’d never danced with Sam. Not once in their lives. They’d never been able to at official functions, for understandable reasons, but he’d never even made the effort in the eked-out bits of time they did have. Not even in jest. _He’d been waiting_ —something deep within Dean thinks. _For their wedding reception._

Dean swallows hard and strides out onto the dance floor before the thought can destroy him— _one more thing they’ll never have, one more glimpse of a future that Sam stole from them_ —then sweeps Lisa into his embrace, trying not to react adversely to the sudden intimacy of the action. It’s such a strange reaction for him to have, especially when compared to the wild oats littering his own not-so-distant past, but he can’t help but muse over how different this moment is from back when they were nineteen. On such a similar dance floor to this one, only across an entire ocean. When the very feel of the winsome princess before him heated his blood more swiftly than even the sweltering Braeden summer managed to. They had fallen into Lisa’s bed, writhing like contortionists, and had spent such a enthusiastic few sessions there that Dean had thought he might actually die of dehydration. There’s no more of that here. Not even a flickering shadow of the lust they once shared. Not on his end, anyway. Time has made Dean a polite stranger to the woman in his arms. Time and… _other things_. Dean violently shoves the unwanted thought back into the depths of his psyche— _he’s gone, he’s fucking **gone** , and it’s good riddance anyway_—then transmutes the painful twitch into an effortless twirl of his arm.

“You’ve been awfully quiet this entire time,” Lisa finally says when she’s spun back into his hold, but there’s no hidden agenda to her words. She’s simply making conversation. Like spouses do. “Tell me what you’re thinking?” she adds, gently enough that Dean could brush off the request if he wanted to.

Instead, he leans down to her ear to answer honestly. “That you are the only soul in this world who cares for me.”

“ _That_ ,” Lisa replies with an affectionate gleam in her eye, “cannot be even remotely true.”

He guides his bride into another flourished twirl, then manages to drum up a weak smile once her dress settles around her ankles. “If today has shown me anything,” he says exhaustedly, “it is that, given the choice, I would have no one else by my side but you.”

There’s that soft grin again. “And I you, my husband.”

Dean winces as the title catches him roughly, dragging against his nerves like stinging nettles. It’s all wrong. All of it. The timbre of her voice. Her height. The smell of her skin. Dean digs his teeth into the soft meat of his tongue, letting the pain get a grip on him before he can slip sideways into madness. “And I you, my wife,” he echoes, a shade less tender, less heartfelt, than her own declaration. She doesn’t notice. _Sam would have noticed._

“Although, you seem fatigued,” Lisa does point out, the slightest hint of mischief in her tone. “Perhaps we should retire early?”

Dean’s jaw tightens at the seemingly harmless statement. He knows exactly what his bride is proposing. There’s no way around it. Though, surprisingly, Lisa’s clear enthusiasm in the matter doesn’t blunt the ache of knowing what’s required of him. Dean idly wonders if a part of him should be flattered. He thinks he would be, normally, but Sam’s cruelty has managed to break him more thoroughly than he’d thought possible. The wound is still too fresh for him to get a hold on the man he used to be. Perhaps he never will again.

“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more,” he says easily. It’s a white lie, as innocent as he isn’t, and Lisa lights up at the compliment.

It’s far too soon for them to be slipping away from their reception—there’s plenty of planned events that they haven’t gotten to yet, and Dean’s sure his attendants will go fully apoplectic once they realize the bride and groom have disappeared. They make their leave anyway, strolling through the halls, hand in hand, as Lisa tugs him on towards his chambers.

Someone has already set up his rooms for their arrival. There are candles softly burning on every available surface, the tallow slowly dripping to collect in puddles over his dark wood furnishings. It lends the space an air of romance, despite the rain pattering against the windows. A sense of lived-in warmth for the beautifully furnished room that Dean barely ever sleeps in. Though he supposes that’s one more change he’ll have to adjust to now.

Lisa reaches out a hand for him before he can get too lost in his thoughts, silent and sensual as she attempts to pull him into a kiss. Dean lets himself be guided, but alters course at the last moment, pressing his lips to her neck instead and hoping she takes the slight as eroticism. Thankfully, the pleased sigh she lets out seems to indicate as much. Lisa starts on the laces of her dress without any prompting—freeing herself from the heavy silk more swiftly and surely than Dean could ever hope to—and the ivory fabric easily crumples to her feet, followed quickly by her chemise, to leave her bare before him. Standing daring and confident in the open air.

Every inch of her is perfect. Each curve familiar, despite the few years that have passed between them. Her dusky nipples are peaked in the slight chill of the room, winter’s reach pervading even in here, but it only adds to the scene, pulling her breasts high and tight as Lisa playfully raises an eyebrow at Dean’s still-clothed form. She’s beautiful. _Stunning_ , really. Just as captivating as the day they met, but Dean can’t force himself to feel anything other than despair at the sight of her. He forces a more characteristic smirk onto his face and goes for the buttons on his own jacket. Ignoring the way his fingers fumble and lag at what used to be one of his favorite activities in life.

Dean pushes past the dryness of his mouth as he finishes undressing. Tries not to dwell on the feeling like a wet cloth has been tightly wrapped around his heart, muffling what should be excitement. He very definitely does _not_ compare this moment to any of the hundreds of times he’d leapt upon Sam like a man possessed. The slightest shift of his brother’s back enough to rile him up more voraciously than ten thousand harem girls ever could. Dean deliberately crumples the memories up into a tiny ball and then sets them afire. No point in wasting away over what was. _Or what could have been._

Instead, he falls to his knees before his queen, burying his face in her sex and letting Lisa’s surprised gasps boost his own slow eagerness in the proceedings. She deserves every piece of his heart. She deserves his eternal dedication and all of his attention and more. She’ll never get it.

He can give her this, at least.

Lisa drags him up onto the bed proper before she can even finish, fierce and impatient and beautiful, and throws a shapely leg over Dean’s hips to straddle him, passionately gazing down at him like he’s the greatest part of her life. She looks like Aphrodite herself, above him like that, and Dean returns the emotion with a weak attempt of his own. He isn’t much more than half ready, so to speak, but he digs his fingers into her comely thighs in an effort to stimulate his own enthusiasm. Pulls in deep breaths of her scent—not just the delicate fragrance adorning the bend of her graceful neck, but the richer, sharper tones of her arousal as well. Grazes the soft curves of her breasts. Tries to drown himself in the alluring femininity of the woman above him. _See, Sam_ —his mind hisses pettily. _I have someone too. I don’t need you, just like you didn’t need me._

It’s a bald-faced lie, and Dean can’t even pretend to believe in his own words.

He swallows around the choking lump of guilt in his throat, then shifts them both upwards until he can turn Lisa around to take her from behind. It’s far less than she deserves, the daintily blushing bride on her royal wedding night, but it’s the only way he’ll be able to get through this without her noticing anything amiss. She seems to take the action for ardor though, twisting around to glance back at him enticingly, her dark hair falling against the lovely sweep of her back and her even darker eyes catching the candlelight like lodestars. The sun shines hot over Braeden, as it does for most lands across the Southern Sea, and the rich, deep tan of her skin contrasts handsomely against his own paler coloring.

Dean wrenches his gaze from the perfect sight as he takes himself in his own hand, stripping his flagging cock until he’s finally capable of consummating their union. Though he cannot stop himself from privately wishing that that Lisa’s hips were not quite so womanly and voluptuous, but slimmer, with a more masculine grace. That she were possessed of a broader, stronger chest tapering into a waist so narrow that Dean could almost wrap his hands around the entirety of it. That her skin was a shade lighter and not quite so soft, perfumed as it is with the finest oils and lotions from her homeland, but firm. Taut from years of physical exertion and cleaving closely to each sharp cut of muscle and sinew. That her welcoming cunt was instead a tighter vise around his cock. That she would toss her head back over her shoulder, a wicked glint in her eye, and goad him into fucking her harder. To throw playful, teasing jibes at Dean until he dug his thumbs into that secret ticklish spot below her ribs and they descended into peals of laughter and one-upmanship as they wrestled like children—more familiar with one another’s form than they are their own.

He sweeps his gaze over the curves of his new bride’s body and imagines Sam. He _closes his_ _eyes_ and imagines Sam. He tries to lose himself in the marital act, to bury himself in the soft, wet heat of a woman—a former indulgence he’d always adored—but he cannot feel or shift or _breathe_ without envisioning the man who betrayed him. Thrown up in stark relief against the darkness of his mind like a richly-dyed tapestry. The deep chestnut of Sam’s hair, and the carefree shapes it made whenever the wind would catch it. The frustratingly damnable, ever-changing blues and greens of his eyes. The way he would press those clever lips down against Dean’s own and whisper devotion into his hungry mouth. Every curve, plane, and edge of the man. The only man he’d ever loved. The man who’d promised to love him forever in return, only to turn around and rip Dean’s heart from his breast purely out of ambition and petty spite.

The Fool King, they should call him. Because he cannot forget that love so easily, despite the bitter taste the memory leaves on his tongue. Even now. Even after everything.

Because he’d take Sam back in a heartbeat if he came in right this moment, crawling on his belly and begging for forgiveness. Prostrating himself across the thick carpet with tears in his eyes. _“Please, Dean. I was so wrong. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. To take back what I did. Just please, **please** , have me again.”_

The self-indulgent image is what propels Dean over the cliff’s edge, eyes screwed shut and rutting into the body before him as he chases his own pleasure. He pumps his hips furiously at the fantasy, but still has the fleeting presence of mind to lock his jaw so that no other name can escape from his lips during their coupling. And if an incriminating, sibilant whisper half-forces its way past his teeth at the very height of his climax…well, perhaps his new queen will assume that it’s just a contented release of air.

 


	12. Night

It’s raining as Lucifer’s carriage ferries them out of Winchester, like the sky itself is sending them on their miserable way. Sam measures the long trip in imperfect, landmarked units of time. When he can’t even make out the silhouette of the castle in the distance anymore, Dean will be standing at the altar. By the time the pale, faint sun hits its midpoint, he’ll be married. As they finally cross the threshold of the outer borders, Dean will be buried so deep inside Lisa he’ll have forgotten that his brother ever existed. As long as Sam lives and breathes, the man who owns his heart will forever loathe him.

He turns his head away from the window at the dismal thought, eschewing his view of the wet, muddy hills for the thick, velvet cushions of the coach’s interior. It’s exquisitely comfortable—as much as Sam hates to admit it—and the dark furnishings and unexpected quiet end up soothing his nerves more than he’d figured possible, given the circumstances. Lucifer, _thankfully_ , prefers to travel in silence, and Sam is afforded one precious day’s respite from the looming certainty of his future. If this is all he’ll get, then he’ll take it selfishly. He’ll savor every fleeting moment.

The clouds seem to get even heavier once they cross the boundary into Ifreann, if that’s possible. Dense, and dark as midnight, even though he can still make out fleeting glimpses of the sun from time to time and the ever occasional snatch of wet sky. The logical part of Sam is remembering old lessons on the location of the duchy and comparing that against likely weather patterns this far north. The childish, bitter side of him can’t help but surmise that it’s simply the reflection of a land as miserably evil as its ruler.

Strangely enough, Sam doesn’t cry—he hasn’t the entire ride—and that surprises him more than he thought it would. His eyes had dried by the time he’d met with Lucifer at the gatehouse and have been slow to water again ever since, as if the storm outside has pulled the rain directly from his very soul, leaving nothing behind. _Or it’s punishment_ —Sam can’t help but think morosely. Perhaps he’s already shed all his tears for Dean. Or, perhaps his fate isn’t worth shedding tears over. Perhaps now, he’s the sort of man who doesn’t deserve to cry.

Perhaps.

They don’t make it to Lucifer’s castle until the thick of night, the rain coming down like a hail of sharp needles as they pull up to the twisting, ironwork gates. The coachman drops down from his perch to hurry over on foot, ineffectively trying to shield his face against the stinging downpour as he signals to the guards.

“We will be married immediately,” Lucifer informs him the instant they’re alone. “Tonight.”

It’s the first thing the man has said in hours, almost a full day’s time, and Sam startles at the low sound of his voice before belatedly pulling his wits together. “Tomorrow morning would be more prudent,” he says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “After all, don’t you need to invite your guests?”

“I was not asking your opinion.”

Sam stiffens at the harsh reprimand, but doesn’t let out another word. And apparently his silence is satisfactory because the archduke simply turns back to his own window. There’s a deep sort of tension set around his eyes, has been their entire journey, and Sam spares a moment of idle curiosity to wonder what the man who’s just gotten everything he wanted could possibly have to be worried about. But Lucifer’s man spurs the horses into a lurching movement again and they’re practically at the castle’s entrance before he can dwell too long on the matter.

The driver drops down once more to open the doors for them, but Lucifer is the one who guides Sam out of the carriage and over the threshold with a crushing grip around his elbow. As if Sam were foolish enough to make an attempt at running. As if he has anywhere in the world he could possibly run _to_.

The yawning, cavernous halls of the keep are all empty, only the faintest flicker of torchlight to illuminate their pathway through the labyrinthine corridors. Lucifer steers him through a series of twists and turns Sam couldn’t hope to remember on his own, and then into a larger open area that must be the great hall. It’s massive. And it’s freezing cold. And it’s almost entirely empty.

There’s an elderly priest standing on a raised stone platform at the center of the room. Two tall candelabras flank him on either side, as if someone has rushed to set up the barest minimum requirements necessary at the very last minute. Apparently, Sam’s been expected. Two figures line the farthest wall, and Sam abruptly realizes that Lucifer’s knights are there too. The ones from the joust. They must have left Winchester a day ahead of them, unnoticed. Ser Abaddon spots him almost immediately and strides over to meet them halfway, her compatriot following lackluster at her heels.

“This isn’t a church,” Sam whispers under his breath, before the others can reach them. He’s not even sure why he’s making the effort, but their bleak surroundings make him feel even more impure than this impending sham of a marriage has managed to.

Lucifer simply snorts and gestures to the pastor. “We have the important part,” he says with dark humor. “God will have to forgive our haste.”

“Well, well, _well_ ,” Abaddon crows once she’s in range, her boot heels clicking against the stone floor to echo off the empty walls. Like twenty more soldiers are at her back. “If it isn’t the little knight from Winchester.”

Sam very pointedly tilts his head _down_ a few inches to grace the brash woman with a humorless quirk of his brow.

She lets out a laugh that chills him down to his bones. “Better be careful with this one, Your Grace,” she teases sharply. “What ever will you do if he bites back?”

“Abaddon,” Lucifer commands harshly. “ _Silence_.” She complies, but the disobedience simmering in her eyes makes Sam question how strong a hold the archduke actually has on his knights. “We’re ready to begin, Father,” Lucifer continues, directing his statement to the sleep-weary priest before them, and Sam can’t help but be resentful and amused, in turns, by the miserable irony. He’s already wearing white.

The officiant begins to drone at Lucifer’s prompting, and Sam feels himself gradually start to drift away from his own body. Like he’s watching this entire, ludicrous charade from high above. As if none of this could possibly be real. There is an ache in his heart, but it isn’t as strong as it could be. He’d agreed to this of his own free will. He deserves everything that’s to follow.

The quiet, hawk-eyed knight—Ser Cain, if Sam recalls—steps around him to serve as his man of honor without being asked. He doesn’t say a word. In a complete and utter contrast, Abaddon stands smugly at the archduke’s right as if she’s enjoying every second of this farce of a ceremony. Lucifer simply stares straight ahead, his grip unflinching on Sam’s arm as he spurs the minister on faster with just the intensity of his gaze.

Sam does not hesitate when he’s asked to say, “I do.” There’s no dramatic pause in which the words need to be forced from his lips. No valiant struggle as he tries to make his escape and is dragged bodily back to the altar. Dean doesn’t charge into the hall on horseback at the very last minute and run his tormentor through the heart before sweeping him into his arms. Sam doesn’t even vow himself to his true love eternal, like the silly heroines do in all the romantic ballads. There’s just the dull, lifeless sound of his own voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he willingly sells himself to the only bidder.

And then, just like that, he’s done it. He’s saved Dean’s life.

Lucifer answers in the affirmative before the priest can even finish asking, tightening the hold around Sam’s elbow he hasn’t released this entire time. The old man announces them wed, Abaddon claps her hands together in sarcastic celebration, and then His Grace, Lucifer, the Archduke of Ifreann and _His Grace,_ Samuel, the _Duke_ of Ifreann descend the short steps back onto the hall’s floor.

“See him back to the chapel,” Lucifer throws over his shoulder to one of his knights, but doesn’t stay to see if his orders are being followed. Probably so used to being obeyed without question there’s no need. He yanks Sam along behind him, dragging him down more of the never-ending hallways, and Sam doesn’t even have it in him to be offended. He could jerk himself free of the archduke’s grasp if the mood struck—he’s most likely physically stronger than the man—but what would be the point? It wouldn’t earn him anything more than a moment of angry retribution from his groom’s unforgiving hand. There’s naught to gain by being defiant now. No one to impress. Nothing for Sam to prove.

Lucifer brings them to a halt in front of a heavy, wooden door—just one out of an endless series of heavy, wooden doors. “This room should suffice,” he says curtly, then undoes the iron padlock with one of the keys he pulls from a long chain around his neck. There’s several on there, and Sam has to forcibly remind himself of the tale of Bluebeard before his curiosity can get the better of him. Lucifer shoves him inside unceremoniously, and then turns to leave again, slamming the door shut behind him with a resounding echo against the stone and another click of the lock.

For a moment, Sam thinks he’s escaped the worst of it. Perhaps Lucifer is too exhausted from their travels to get up to anything tonight. Perhaps he prefers to sleep alone. Sam tries not to hope too hard as he turns around to inspect his new chambers. They look usable enough, spacious and lived-in. The bedcovers are clean and pressed, if not particularly ornate, and the dark velvet matches the rest of Lucifer’s apparent choice in aesthetics. Sturdy, rustic furniture sits sporadically around the room as well—though most of the pieces have clearly been chosen for function over form, given the slightly mismatched nature of the items. However, there is an expensive-looking writing desk of particular note stuffed into one corner. Sam runs his fingertips over the wood as he halfheartedly examines it. The drawer is solidly locked when he tugs on it—probably works with one of the keys from Lucifer’s necklace—but the flat surface is carefully oiled and free of any scratches or divots. Like it’s used often and treasured well.

The click of the door unlocking behind him snaps Sam from his musings as he whirls around. “I do apologize,” Lucifer says smoothly, and it looks like years have dropped from his face when he glances up to meet Sam’s eyes. Whatever stressful situation had been eating at him on the ride over has apparently been handled. “There were matters of state I needed to attend to.” He closes the door behind him, and then saunters into the room suggestively. “You have my full attention now.”

“Are you spending the night in here, Your Grace?” Sam asks neutrally, careful not to give his emotions away, despite the pointless nature of such an endeavor. He mostly just doesn’t want to give Lucifer the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

“And where else would you expect your husband to sleep?” the archduke teases him pointedly. “These are _my_ chambers, after all.”

Sam fights back a reaction at the information. Of course they are. That explains the desk, at least.

Lucifer lets a slow smile curl around the edges of his lips at Sam’s silence. “Though,” he continues, stalking ever forward, “I believe there are certain matters of state that we need to attend to in _here_ as well.”

A hot bolt of delayed rage suddenly makes its way up Sam’s spine. It’s the worst possible moment for it, but he’s never had that tight a leash on his anger at the best of times. “And what would those be?” he asks stiffly.

The archduke is close enough now to roughly stroke his knuckles against the side of Sam’s face. Possessive and controlling. “I’ve already rescued you from your horrid family,” he says. “Now it’s _your_ turn to please your husband. To make this marriage binding in the eyes of God.”

Sam strikes out to clamp his hand around his husband’s wrist in an iron grip, the small bones creaking in his grasp. “I’ve already made myself a traitor to my own kingdom,” he snarls, shoving the older man back forcefully. “I will not be your whore as well.” It’s a largely ceremonial refusal—his wants and desires have no bearing on this matter, only Lucifer’s—but Sam has to make the attempt nonetheless. He’d never be able to live with himself if he tacitly conceded at the moment of his own rape, futile as his denial might be.

But Lucifer simply smiles at his insubordination. “Oh dear, would you look at that?” he says, low and calm. “I’ve somehow managed to wrench my wrist. It must have happened while I was out riding earlier.” His eyes go half-lidded as he takes in Sam’s still-defensive stance. “Though what good fortune it is that the culprit was just an unruly horse and not an insolent husband.” Lucifer abruptly snakes forward to grip at Sam’s face, shoving him back _hard_ against the bedroom wall as he crushes his fingers into the bone of his jaw. “I can’t imagine how grim the consequences would be if I had to inform the guards that my new groom from Winchester willfully laid violent hands upon their ruler,” he hisses darkly. “It might start a _war_.” Lucifer holds his wary gaze until the tumblers in Sam’s head eventually click into place, the underlying promise clear.

Winchester’s soldiers are legendary, noted for both their numbers and their skill in battle. It’s very likely that Sam’s homeland would again come out victorious in a campaign against the Ifreann army. But Dean would be forced to fight. It would be his duty as king. And Sam can’t imagine that Lucifer would waste an opportunity to sink an arrow straight into his brother’s heart the first chance he got, proper rules of engagement or no. He slumps back against the wall, docile, as the enormity of the threat finally registers.

The archduke stretches his lips into a cold-blooded grin at Sam’s easy submission. “But I think,” he continues, brushing his fingertips over the bend of Sam’s wrists, “more likely, they would just have these removed for my safety. Tell me, husband. Would you need hands to fulfill your spousal duty?” He reaches up to drag a harsh thumb across the pillow of Sam’s lower lip, and Sam violently strangles back the urge to spit at the action. “I don’t think so,” Lucifer whispers cruelly.

He ducks forward to bury his teeth in Sam’s neck, pressing his already hard length into his inner thigh, and Sam sucks in a shaky breath at the turn of circumstance—torn between letting himself float away again or standing defiant under Lucifer’s attentions, solely for the sake of his own pride. He won’t speak, Sam decides. Not a single word. If that’s the only victory he can squeeze out in this, then so be it. Lucifer wants him to fight? To resist? He wants a stubborn rebel that he can enjoy breaking and dominating? He won’t get anything more than a silent, sullen doll.

Sam lets his muscles go loose under the archduke’s ministrations, dropping his head back against the wall and staring blankly at the room’s high ceiling. Lucifer seems to notice the change a moment later and pulls back to regard Sam’s strategy. Though it doesn’t take long for another sadistic smirk to grace his features. He tears Sam’s shirt open with one strong tug, the delicate fabric ripping at the seams, and Sam can’t help sucking in a hurt breath at the action. _That was Dean’s favorite_ —he thinks wistfully, then shoves the thought aside. It doesn’t matter anymore and there’s no use for it anyway. Another duck of Lucifer’s head and scrape of his teeth against Sam’s bare collarbone gets him a flinch, but no more. He stiffens when the archduke goes for the laces on his trousers, but doesn’t let out a peep. He knew this was coming. No point in playing the chaste nun now.

“No more of that rapier wit?” Lucifer teases him as he undresses him fully. _Brutally_. Getting his trousers caught around his boots, then tearing the whole tangled mess free with a violent ripping sound. Sam will need all new clothes. He’d left with nothing but the ones on his back. Lucifer shoves him backwards to land on their bed, and Sam bites at his own tongue to keep himself from responding to the taunt. “It can’t possibly have all dried up, could it?” he asks maliciously, yanking his own shirt over his head.

Sam turns away from the newly bared flesh, redirecting his gaze to the far wall and trying to remember the words to one of his favorite poems. _Dean had thought it was cloying, but he’d let Sam recite it all the same. In their bed or out on the field. Rolling his eyes at the more flowery parts and always speaking the last line in tandem with Sam, like he was grateful it was over. But then he’d smile. He’d smile every time._

A heavy bit of glass hits Sam solidly in the chest, and he lets out a sound before he can snatch it back. One hand automatically comes up to clutch at the offending container, and it only takes a moment for him to realize what it is. A small jar of oil. He schools his features and gives Lucifer a flat look, as if he doesn’t know what it’s for.

“I want you to prepare yourself for me,” Lucifer explains simply. _Ah_ , well that would get around Sam’s self-imposed proscription on contributing. “I would prefer you as an active participant on this, our most sacred wedding night,” he says. “But I can live with the opposite, if you can.” The ingrained threat flashes darkly across his eyes. “Those are your two choices, husband mine. You can stick those eager fingers into that whorish ass of yours and get yourself ready like the slag I know you are, show me how desperate you are for a good fucking, or you can take your bridegroom dry.”

Sam tracks his gaze down Lucifer’s body, eyes briefly catching over the evidence of the older man’s excitement. He isn’t quite as large as Dean, not even close to Sam, and the minor discomfort wouldn’t be worth the humiliation. Sam slowly, _deliberately_ sets the jar on the bedside table with a distinctive click. The decision doesn’t take longer than a second, and he matches Lucifer’s stare the entire time.

“How noble,” the archduke croons.

Then Sam is suddenly flipped onto his hands and knees, Lucifer’s ruthless hands wrenching him into position before he can even get his bearings. His fingers scrabble wildly against the duvet, frantically searching for purchase before Lucifer forces himself inside with one savage thrust.

And _Jesus Christ in Heaven_ it hurts. Sam bites back on the cry that wants to leap from his throat, letting the silent wince of pain and hunch of his shoulders be the only thing that gives him away. He’d thought, foolishly he sees now, that he’d be prepared for this. He’s no virgin to men, whatever his new husband might think, and he’d assumed that being taken in this manner couldn’t be much worse than the times he and Dean had played a little rough. But he was wrong. Dear _God_ , he’d been so wrong. Sam drops weakly to his elbows, panting heavily against the duvet as he tries to pull himself together. Dean had been so incredibly tender with him in comparison, and it’s an odd thing to find out like this. For as much, and as often, as Sam had attacked his brother’s neck and shoulders with savage onslaughts of teeth and tongue, Dean had always treated him softer. Like he was precious. Something to be cherished. Even their very first time hadn’t hurt like this—Dean being so careful to prepare him gently, their foreplay long and poignant and beautiful. And every time after that, just the same.

“I think,” Lucifer chuckles darkly, “that you are not so tight.” He punctuates the statement with another sharp, painful thrust of his hips. “Has another been sampling from the honey pot? Did we leave a _beau_ back in Winchester? Another knight perhaps?”

Sam locks his teeth together and doesn’t make a sound. He has to protect Dean, even now. For always. He can’t ever allow Lucifer even an inkling of their true relationship. Or—of what _was_ their true relationship. Sam has already salted and burned what they once had to mere ashes. He’d made damn well sure of that. Plus, Dean is certainly married to another by now. Sam cringes as the hypocrisy of that thought pricks him through the heart. So is he.

“What a selfless prince you are,” his husband croons at him. “Willing to do anything to protect your people.” Another savage twist of his hips and a vicious hand tangled in his hair sends Sam arching away from the pain, only to recoil right back into Lucifer’s arms when the writhing just makes it worse. “Not to mention your fraudulent king of a brother,” Lucifer adds cruelly. He drapes himself over Sam’s back to whisper in his ear. “Though I think this would be easier for you if I tied you down. Don’t you? If there was nothing you could do to buck me. If this entire act was truly against your will.” He presses a mockery of a kiss to his shoulder. Horrifying in its gentleness. “But you are as complicit in this as I am,” he accuses softly. “I’m holding you to this bed with nothing more than ephemeral words. What will you tell anyone who asks? That I lashed your arms with rope? That I clapped you in irons? Lies, little prince. All lies against God. I even granted you oil to slick the way.”

Sam slams his eyes shut as hard as they’ll go, colored spots dancing in his vision as he tries to float away again. _Dean, think about Dean. Those are **Dean’s** hands around his waist, viciously clawing at his sides. Dean’s hot, wet breath puffing over the back of his neck. Dean’s cock sending lightning flashes of agony up his spine with every bloody, dragging thrust._

It doesn’t work. It doesn’t fucking work and Lucifer pulls him right back into the present with another burst of pain, clearly onto his little trick by now, holding him immobile and keeping up a steady stream of dialogue so he can’t even let his mind escape.

The archduke takes forever to finish, each brutal punch of his hips an excruciating torment until he finally, _thankfully_ , climaxes. The warm splash of his seed oddly soothing along Sam’s raw and torn inner walls. And then he’s free at long last, released from his husband’s hold with a dismissive sniff and a perfunctory warning not to bleed on the blanket.

Sam can’t do anything but obey, carefully crawling under the velvet bedspread and trying not to mar the expensive linens as he takes stock of himself. His legs are still there, numb as they feel, but every slight movement sends a wincing pain shooting through his lower half. Nothing life-threatening though. He’ll be able to heal as long as Lucifer isn’t interested in a repeat performance tomorrow night. Sam snorts quietly as he realizes something else. He’d been soft the entire time, completely throughout it all, his body true to his heart even when his actions couldn’t be, and it’s almost something to laugh about.

Lucifer slips away from the bed all but immediately, heading across the floor to carefully clean himself off with one of the water vases decorating the room’s many tables. Casually going about his business like Sam isn’t even present. Apparently _semen_ isn’t something he’s too worried about leaking onto his sheets. “I will have to dispose of the stallion, unfortunately,” he mentions, completely out of nowhere.

It’s a confusing and flimsy attempt to curry conversation, but Sam caves all the same. Too beaten down to play the coquette at the moment. There’s no point in remaining silent now. “What stallion?” he eventually rasps through his hoarse throat.

His husband smiles at his participation. “The one that attempted to buck me earlier, of course,” Lucifer says frankly. “The one who wrenched my wrist?” He playfully twists his arm back at the bed and Sam stiffens as the reminder comes flooding through his brain. “I can’t have an unbroken steed among the rest of my horses,” Lucifer continues calmly. “After all, who knows what sort of damage that could cause? I think I’ll have my steward select one at random from the stables for slaughter. Distasteful though it may be, it’s better to nip any potential problems in the bud than to let a disobedient beast run rampant throughout my domain.” He makes his way back across the room, seemingly unconcerned by his nudity in front of a near stranger—if _that’s_ what they could be called—and then meets Sam’s eyes soberly. “Think well on that, my husband.”

He quickly redresses, tossing Sam’s ruined attire to one corner of the room, and then returns to the head of the bed, savagely shoving his tongue into Sam’s unresisting mouth until he’s sated. He tastes like nothing.

Sam doesn’t cry after he leaves. Not curled into himself, horror-stricken and numb as he lies alone on the soiled sheets of his new marriage bed. Not when he eventually gets up to wash himself as well and the water runs too pink for too long. Not even when Lucifer returns later, expectant that Sam has successfully been heeled and intent on spending the meager remainder of the night side-by-side. He doesn’t allow a single tear to slip free. And as pitiful as it is to take comfort in such a thing, Sam can’t help but do so. Sickened from the cold pit of shame in his gut, and with Lucifer’s cruel hands curled up behind him and pressing at the small of his back, Sam pulls in measured breaths and keeps his eyes fixed on the room’s heavy desk. Counting each beat of his heart and watching the shadows slowly creep across the floorboards with the rising of the moon. He lays awake the entire night, pulse spiking in fear at every slight shift of movement from the body behind him.

But he does not cry.

Not one, single tear.

 


	13. Ghost

The castle is cold now. Always, despite the gradually clearing weather outside. Dean knows that sounds ludicrous, as if something as simple as one missing— _unwanted_ —presence could have any bearing on the heat radiating from the grand fireplaces scattered throughout the structure, but the halls remain chilled all the same. Although, perhaps it’s more the loneliness that’s getting to him. Their royal guests had started trickling out the first week after the wedding, and it had been a steady stream of departure after that. The very last few had lingered a couple weeks more, but they’ve all been gone for a long time by now.

Even Lisa’s eternal, buoyant spark has seemed to dim somewhat these past few months. Dean’s sure his wife’s temperament has much to do with his own malaise, as he’s taken to listlessly roaming the empty corridors more often than not, like a lost spirit from one of the old Neamhean tales. It’s not like there’s anything he could possibly hope to find in the empty halls, but the repetitive motions soothe his bones somehow. His long walks are just one way to occupy his time that isn’t drinking or making endless political decisions. Dean hasn’t even thought to touch his wife again since their wedding night. There’s no satisfaction in the act for him anymore, as the physical pleasure is too hard for him to reach with the heartache weighing down his soul. He certainly doesn’t hunt, refusing to fall into the exact same trap of grief that his father lost himself in after Mary passed; becoming a shell of a man, drifting through life with sadness trailing his every action.

Dean snorts as the bitter realization hits him, pausing for a moment, then he simply turns the next corner and continues on anyway. _Ah well_ , at the very least, he’s in familiar company.

A flash within the nearest doorway catches his eye and Dean finally comes to a lethargic stop. Something inside him groans once he recognizes the location, but he can’t exactly call it a surprise. He’s found himself in front of the Royal Library once again. This isn’t the only place his wanderings have taken him in the past few months, but it isn’t the first time he’s stood outside these open doors either.

The flash from before passes by again, and Dean silently watches Bobby go about his business within. The scholar must be hard-pressed for help ever since Sam left. Even after Dean had promoted him to knighthood, his little brother had still found the time to assist where he could. As if the very thought of being away from the written word that long was something he couldn’t stand for. _Good_ —Dean thinks bitterly. _I’m sure there are plenty of books in Ifreann._ He clearly couldn’t have dropped by for the pleasure of his adoptive father’s company, as he’d abandoned him just as surely and swiftly as he had Dean. Even worse, actually. Bobby had nothing but a dispassionate, bare-bones letter to cushion the blow. At least Dean was betrayed to his face.

He watches Bobby’s back as he sits down at the nearest table, hunched over a sheaf of papers as he scritches away, copying some sort of information from a heavy tome laid out in front of him. Maybe he should leave. Bobby must miss Sam just as much as he does. _Or more_ —considering the fact that Dean certainly _doesn’t_ miss that two-faced Judas. In any conceivable way. Yet he still lingers as he allows his eyes to alight on the older man’s shoulders again. The sight of him will certainly only draw allusions to the son who left. He should go before Bobby spots him. His feet refuse to move.

“In or out, boy,” Bobby gruffly tosses over his shoulder. “No one likes a gloomy spectator.”

Dean lets out a sigh as he grudgingly steps into the room. Why does he even bother? The other man didn’t even need to turn around to know he was there. Apparently, the brooding cloud above his head could be felt all the way from the far hall.

Bobby simply tugs out one of the wooden chairs as Dean approaches the table, not glancing up from his work for a second. “Sit.”

A part of him wants to feel slightly affronted at the order, but does as his old teacher commands, nonetheless. He’s too tired for anything else. “Lonely?” Dean asks dryly as he drops into the seat.

“More like your sulking was making me itchy.” Bobby shoves half the stack in front of him over to Dean, a few blank pages slipping free to flutter down to the thick rug beneath them. “If you ain’t getting any ruling done anyway, then you might as well make yourself useful here.” He taps at the first page of the massive book spread open before them. “Start here.”

Dean’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “You want me to copy down a list of titles?” It’s not like he’s never had to be academic before—he was tutored by Bobby his whole life, same as Sam—but he’s never exactly been the… _scholarly_ type out of the two of them. If Bobby doesn’t want a ton of scratched-out mistakes, he might be better off handling this on his own. Or, maybe he’s so behind on work that any messy ink blotches won’t matter as long as he can catch up. Maybe Sam’s selfish decision has hurt Bobby in more ways than just emotionally.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Bobby grumbles at Dean’s hesitation. “I can hear you clear over here.” He scoots an extra quill and inkpot over to Dean’s side of the table with the back of his hand. “It’s just an index, alright? I need a portable copy. So you don’t need to get your breeches in a bunch worrying about making it perfect. It ain’t gotta look pretty, it’s just gotta be legible.” He hunches back over his own work, a much more complicated project than the one Dean’s been handed, now that he can see it closer, and starts scribbling out a line of complicated jargon across the page. “Since I’ve only got one remaining idjit to help me out today, that means it’s going to be you. King or no.”

Dean lets out a little huff of amusement at the refreshing bluntness and gets to work. It actually might help to take his mind off things. Plus, Bobby’s sure to appreciate something that isn’t scrawled in his brother’s nigh-unreadable chicken scratch the way the book in front of them is. Dean rolls his eyes as he looks over the page. It’s Sam’s handiwork alright, through and through. Full of out of place, lower case ‘f’s and messily scrawled ‘A’s that look more like pentagrams than letters. He ignores the twinge of loss that he most certainly _does not_ feel and starts in on the mindless task.

They sit there in companionable quiet for a good several minutes before Bobby finally breaks the silence. “So, you going back to being human anytime soon?” he asks nonchalantly, his eyes and hands still glued to his work. “Or are you just planning on moping up and down these halls forever?”

“None of your damn business, Bobby,” Dean mutters back, just as casual.

“Look,” he sighs, “I know you two were as close as bark on a tree, but it ain’t unforgivable for Sam to take a liking to someone. He was well past the age for it, if you ask me.”

Dean refuses to respond, but Bobby, thankfully, doesn’t push. There’s another moment of peaceable silence, just the soft, twin scratches of quill against paper to underscore the mood before the older man speaks again. “He’s my kid too, you know,” he says eventually.

Dean tightens his free hand into a fist where it’s resting on the table, managing to continue with his task only thanks to sheer willpower as the anger threatens to overwhelm him. “Then you have just as much right as I do to feel betrayed that he left us. Or _pleased_ , I suppose,” he spits dully. “After all, your son managed to snag himself a nobleman. You’ve got a duke in the family.”

There’s a further pause as Bobby stops writing completely. Nothing but stillness and silence from Dean’s right. “Step down from prince though, ain’t it?” he says quietly.

Dean’s hand jerks wide, his quill tearing a jagged gash in the parchment as he lifts his head up, eyes wide as saucers, to gape at his childhood tutor. “What are you talking about?” he demands breathlessly, bleak terror quickly filling him up to the brim.

Bobby just snorts in amusement at Dean’s reaction, leaning back in his chair as he tosses his quill on the table and adjusts the cap on his head. “You think I’m a natural-born idjit? _Please_ , I’ve had to cover for your asses since the two of you were in swaddling clothes.”

Dean’s nervous hackles gradually settle back down at the other man’s calm, steady indifference. There’s no threat here. They’re the only ones around and Bobby isn’t going to turn him in. Though Dean still swallows hard before he can speak again. “I thought that Mary—”

“No,” Bobby says warmly. “It was your daddy that gave his youngest boy to me, God rest his soul.” A bittersweet smile briefly crosses his face at the memory, but he pulls himself back together just as quickly. “John told me he was gonna let you boys in on the truth, well, about twenty or thirty different times in the last eight years.” He lets out a chuckle under his breath. “I learned real quick to figure out the signs that he didn’t actually go through with it. And then, the one time he actually did.”

Dean blinks at the statement, racking his brain trying to remember that same afternoon. He mentally retraces his steps of that day, and then also the following weeks. Had he acted differently afterwards? Had Sam? Were there tells Bobby was able to pick up on simply from knowing them so well? Or was it because he had such pertinent background knowledge in the first place? Is it possible that there are others who could have come to a similar conclusion? Dean fights back the unhelpful wave of panic and focuses on the most important bit of information. Bobby knows the truth about them. He’s _always_ known. And Dean has never been so glad that they had decided to keep their affair a secret from Sam’s father as well.

“No one else knows, Dean,” Bobby promises with another smile, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He’s probably misreading Dean’s thoughts just from the look of sheer worry on his face. “I was the only soul John told. I swear on my life.”

“Bobby, I—” Dean cuts himself off with a small breath, not even sure what he’s trying to say. _“Sorry we didn’t tell you that thing it turns out you already knew?”_ Or maybe simply, _“Thanks for not having me executed?”_ Dean stalls for a minute, trying to reorder the thoughts in his head, before pushing his chair away from the table. He needs to think. He needs to think somewhere that isn’t here. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry, but—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby interrupts him, waving him away with a friendly flick of his wrist. “Go brood some more. I’ve got this under control.” He chuckles a little to himself as he turns back to his writing. “You’re worse than your brother—always getting caught up in a passage and forgetting to actually copy it down. At least he usually got through more than half a page.”

Dean freezes in place halfway to standing, Bobby’s flippant words hitting him hard, even though they’re meant in easy jest. _Worse than his brother?_ Dean would never abandon his entire family for a shiny, new title. He would never promise his love eternal and then suddenly turn his back out of jealousy and greed. “No,” Dean murmurs grimly, shoving his chair back into position with a sharp slam of wood. “I’m not.” His foul mood firmly in place once more, he stalks out of the library, running like a coward before Bobby can toss any more banal platitudes his way.

It’s his own damn fault. He’d let himself get caught up in the familiarity of talking with Bobby. In the easy camaraderie. And just for a second, he’d forgotten how much he hates Sam— _no he doesn’t_ —or how much he _needs_ to hate Sam. Dean doesn’t have any other way to release his frustration at the moment, so he rips a button off his sleeve just so he can fling it at the nearest wall. It shatters against the stone and tumbles to the ground in two easy halves, but it doesn’t make him feel that much better. He needs a drink. Or he needs to be alone. Or he needs _not_ to be alone. Or he needs a drink.

The quickest method for both is his father’s old study. _His_ study now, he supposes. The good news is that there’s no one to raise a fatherly eyebrow at him when he steals a taste from one of the king’s private vintages anymore. Because everything is his. This whole fucking castle and everything in it is his. Dean scrubs a rough hand over his face and tries not to think about why that makes him feel so empty inside.

Azazel slips into view right as Dean approaches the heavy doors and he tries not to grumble at his luck. The man’s got either the best timing on God’s green Earth, or the worst. Dean would guess, due to his advisor’s contented expression, that he believes the former of himself. “Have I caught you at a bad time, Sire?” he asks innocuously. Or as innocuous as the man can attempt, anyway.

“Yes,” Dean says bluntly, walking inside without waiting for a response.

But Azazel doesn’t let the obvious dismissal deter him, following closely at his heels. “I wonder if I can’t be of some assistance in regards to that matter,” he offers blithely, somehow producing a servant from the outside hallway and directing him to start up a fire in the room’s massive hearth. There are still a few hours of daylight left, but the thick layer of wet clouds hanging in the sky tints everything a cool grey. The warmth will be welcome if nothing else.

Dean lets out a put-upon sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose, but he allows the two men to bustle about all the same. “What do you want, Azazel?” he asks exhaustedly.

His advisor clasps his hands at his front, the perfect picture of demure obeisance. “I’ve noticed that the queen has seemed somewhat subdued as of late. As have you, Your Majesty, if I’m not being too impertinent.”

“You’re always impertinent. Get to the point.”

Azazel smiles at the weak jibe. “I believe a vacation might be in order to lift the lady’s spirits.”

“A vacation,” Dean repeats dully.

“Yes, Sire. The queen is used to a warmer, more arid climate. Perhaps a trip southwards will make her feel more at ease. There’s nothing like a relaxing voyage overseas to soothe a person’s nerves.”

The harmless statement hits Dean like a mace to the head, and he suddenly can’t pull in enough air. The memory of his father standing at this very window threatens to overwhelm him. He’d stood right here the day before he’d left. The last image Dean has of him. Smiling at him and Sam and promising to return. So they could finally be a family. All three of them. In name as well as heart. But he hadn’t. All because of that wretched, accursed journey. The Fates’ cruel hands robbing him of his sole remaining parent, right before they’d seen fit to steal his brother away as well. “No ships,” he manages to force out in an attempt at authority, though the breath leaves his lungs more readily than the words do.

Azazel’s expression folds into one of sudden awareness, as if he’d just now considered the effects of such a statement. Though his look of mild concern only seems to sink past the first layer of his skin. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he apologizes, bowing deeply. “Pardon my thoughtlessness. I only meant to help.” He takes a small step forward, not enough to chafe at Dean’s nerves. “Maybe somewhere closer to home instead? There are plenty of horse trails throughout the northmost regions. A few days’ ride might be more suited to _your_ interests. A fox hunt perhaps? I could send fifteen of my best men to accompany you both.”

Dean snorts and turns back to face the window—his father’s window—as he manages to get his anxiety back under control. “So many? For a few days’ trip?”

“To contain any potential situations that could arise, of course. After all, your safety is paramount.”

The sentiment is a welcome one, but Dean still can’t help but feel like he’s chatting with a writhing nest of vipers. “I’m not in the mood for a vacation at the moment,” he says sternly. “If my wife is so set on escaping these walls, perhaps she’ll be content to travel without me.”

“Perhaps,” Azazel agrees with a wan smile. Though the detached cordiality in his tone discloses his obvious thoughts on the matter. He remains at Dean’s side just long enough for propriety’s sake, then gestures questioningly back towards the door. “By your leave, Milord?”

Dean sends him off with a cursory wave of his hand. “Yes, go. By all means.” He steps up to the window fully as the massive wooden door slams shut under its own weight, erasing Azazel from his mind as he takes in the view of the castle’s surrounding forests. The logs crackle in the large fireplace behind him, as if to remind him that all the comforts of home are in the other direction, but Dean feels more of a pull towards the foggy mists outside. Or his soul does, at least. Nothing short of an emergency would get him out in weather like this if he had the choice. But there’s something magical about the woods at this time of day, even with rain dripping from the leaves of the trees.

John was almost always here. Right in this exact spot. Staring out at the forest any time he wasn’t actually hunting or riding through the thick of it. Dean idly wonders if he’d done so hoping for a glimpse of Mary. If every slight flash of white through the trees set his heart racing in irrational, preposterous hope that her spirit might still wander the grounds. Dean lets out a quiet breath and leans his forehead against the cool pane of glass. Maybe they’re both out there now.

It isn’t Mary he looks for, though, as his eyes sweep the wet grounds in the fading daylight. No, not his mother. He is his father’s son, after all.

Because if Sam _were_ to return, he’d come from this direction. Dean would be the first one to spot him, a solitary black carriage winding its way down the muddy road. Or perhaps just a single rider on horseback. That’s more Sammy’s style anyway. Dean lets go of the simmering poison in his heart for one fleeting moment, just so he can lose himself in a dream of his own design. A world in which he’s still loved in return. A world in which there are no wounds left to fester and he can almost imagine his brother riding to his doorstep, flying down the road on horseback to come home to him once more. Sam’s hair blown back haphazardly in the wind, even with the light rain plastering his bangs to his skull. His shirt soaked clean through—it would be the same white one he’d been wearing the day he left—and it would cling to the planes of his chest under the drizzling clouds. His long legs pumping with the magnificent animal underneath him as he rides for the castle gates. Desperate for them to be reunited. Desperate to throw himself on Dean’s mercy. To beg and plead for his love once more. And in his imaginings, Dean would give it gladly.

The door behind him swings open with a loud creaking sound, and it shreds the sweet fantasy into ephemeral wisps. John had always kept the hinges from being oiled on his own order, so that no one could catch him off-guard. Dean keeps them the same way solely because that’s how they’d always sounded in his childhood memories. “What do you want _now_ , Azazel?” he barks gruffly. The sooner he sends the man away, the sooner he can fall back into his lotus-petal daydreams.

“Dean.” That’s Lisa’s voice. Soft and tentative as she braves the unflinching iron of his back.

Dean’s heart falls at the inevitability of the approaching conversation. He’s not in the right state of mind for this. He can’t feint and dodge around his wife’s valid questions after the day he’s had. She’s too intelligent to be fooled much longer. Too undeserving for him to keep hurting her the way he does. Especially with the way the rage and frustration are still churning around inside him with nowhere to go. Dean needs wine for this. No—what he _needs_ is ale, but apparently that isn’t fucking ‘kingly’ enough for him to be seen with. “Lis,” he sighs, “I can’t do this right now.”

“Then when _can_ you?” The surprisingly sharp bite to her words leaves him chagrined enough to hold his tongue. Sheepish enough to turn and face her, but not enough to apologize. “We missed you at the council meeting today,” she continues, in a slightly gentler manner.

“I’m sure you had it well in hand.”

“I missed you, nonetheless.”

Dean says nothing.

Lisa finally slips fully inside the room, her fingers tangling together as she steps closer. “I’ve been missing you in more ways than one,” she ventures delicately. “And there are certain _responsibilities_ we have to the kingdom.”

His internal organs start to sink in on themselves at the clear implication to her words. It’s long past time for Lisa to bring this up, but Dean has no answers that will satisfy. No promises he’s willing to make. He can’t. Accepting his fate would be ceding to the loss. Making it permanent. If he agrees to actually try for children, then it means he’s truly moved on. And if Sam came back one day, penitent and begging, to find not just a wife replacing him, but a _family—_ Dean swallows hard at the terrifying thought. His brother might turn around again before even attempting to contact him. But if he managed to hold off long enough, just long enough for Sam to see that he’d waited…

Dean forces himself back to reality as he shakes the foolish notion from his brain. What does it matter anyway? The traitorous snake isn’t ever coming back. He had made certain of that with his parting threats. And even if he did, Dean wouldn’t want him. How could he possibly want him after everything he’d done?

“We’ve already…tried,” is what he eventually says.

Lisa just looks at him with one of those _looks_. “Dean, it’s quite apparent that it didn’t take,” she says indulgently. “Perhaps the Lord wishes us to try again.”

“Perhaps the Lord doesn’t intend for us to have children.”

His queen lets a sharp sound of vexation escape her lips. “You’re being ridiculous,” she snits, her careful control over her emotions splintering further with every fence Dean throws up between them. “Almost no one conceives on the first attempt.”

“ _Or_ it’s Heaven’s way of telling us that the timing isn’t right,” he spits bitterly.

Lisa frowns at him for a moment, trying to piece together the jumbled fragments of all his evasions. “Do you not want babies right away?” she asks tentatively. “Is that what all this is about?” His wife smiles sweetly as she brings a hand up to his cheek, _simpering_ , like she’s got him all figured out—and Dean has to shove the abrupt flare of acrimony back down before he does something stupid like snap at her. “There are other wonderful reasons for lovemaking,” she points out flirtatiously, glancing up at him through her lashes. “And there are plenty of protections to ensure that those _reasons_ don’t result in a pregnancy.” Lisa lets her hand slip down to rest on his arm, but she keeps the point of connection. “We can wait until you’re ready for children,” she says with a slight squeeze. “Of course we can. But we can also make the best of it in the meantime.”

Dean clenches his jaw at the suggestion, floundering under the excuse she’s just given him. He _should_ be taking her up on her offer just to avoid suspicion, but he can’t. It still feels like a betrayal either way. And how fucking absurd is that? Dean’s worried about betraying the man who betrayed him. The royal physicians would have a field day with him if they were allowed to crack open his head and peek inside. “I’m not in a romantic mood,” he protests tightly, the thin thread holding his temper in check threatening to fray apart at any moment.

But Lisa just presses her body up against his own, soft and warm and yielding. “You haven’t touched me since our wedding night,” she whispers seductively, curving into him everywhere they meet. “Don’t you remember that night, Dean? I remember.”

“ _Lisa_ ,” he grits out through his teeth, the muscles of his arms locking up in irritation.

“Shall I remind you?” she asks, trailing her hand down to palm him through his trousers.

Those small, delicate fingers against his cock sets something ablaze in Dean so quickly and so ferociously that there’s no chance of reining it back in. Every single bit of his caged anger from the past few months, from Bobby, from Azazel, from _Sam_ comes smashing past his defenses until he’s physically shoving Lisa away from him in a haze of red.

“Do you need my cock so badly that you cannot _function_ without pestering me?” he asks viciously.

Her eyes go so wide, Dean can see the reflection of the flames in them. “Dean—”

“Honestly, how _ever_ did you get on before without a stud constantly betwixt your thighs?” he snarls. “Perhaps I should let you borrow one of the stallions from my stables!”

The sharp crack across his face registers before the pain does. Then the ringing in his ears, more from his own brutish words than Lisa’s well-deserved slap. And then the indignant anger in his wife’s eyes slowly fades to horror as the consequences of such an action dawns upon her. She’s just struck a king on his own soil, and if Dean were a crueler man, he could have her head for it.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa breathes, the blood draining from her face in sheer terror. “Dean, I—Your Majesty, please forgive me.”

But he can’t.

He can’t because she’s done nothing wrong. Nothing except attempt to care for him when no one else would. Nothing except give everything of herself to pick up all his broken pieces even though she has no idea what shattered him in the first place. He’s been an utter heel, so caught up in his own selfish torment that he hasn’t thought twice about lashing out at the remaining few souls around him. The ones who deserve it the least. The ones who’d _stayed_.

Dean lets his eyes slip shut and ponders how a king can feel lower than dirt. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he says through stiff lips. Because this is all on him. He’s done it again. Caused someone to turn their heart away due to the faults of his own character. Now Lisa will leave him too. She’ll find someone better suited to her wants and desires and she’ll choose them instead. She’ll walk away from him, despite all her promises to the contrary, and he deserves every bit of it.

Still, this time doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the first.

Dean refuses to dwell on why.

“My actions were coarse,” he says stiltedly. “And undeserved. I apologize.” Lisa’s hand falls back to her side, but she doesn’t give him anything else to work with. “I have been…vexed as of late,” Dean adds, subdued. His voice too rough in the still air of the room. “And you have been nothing but gracious and understanding, forgiving me for my darker moods.”

“Do you have lighter moods?” Lisa asks soberly, the wool finally tumbling from her eyes. “I’ve only seen clouds since our wedding day.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to address the disquieting dread in his chest that says this is all he is now. That Sam had taken everything good with him when he left and now Dean has nothing to offer other than aching misery and a handful of empty attempts at pretending it isn’t there. That this is all he’ll be until the day he’s buried. “I’ll have my steward bring up a vase of flowers from the royal gardens,” he says in lieu of an actual response, making his way out of the room so that he can find Kevin. “As a token of my apology.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. He can’t even bring himself to try. “You’re fond of daisies, are you not?”

“Yes, Dean,” Lisa sighs quietly. It sounds like a closing door. “I’m fond of daisies.”

 


	14. Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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There’s an automatic attempt on Sam’s part to keep track of time at first. Lucifer doesn’t allow him any papers or writing materials—out of fear he’d send out a desperate message for rescue, most likely—but it’s an unnecessary precaution. Sam would never risk his brother’s life like that. Not simply for his own comfort. But he still marks his days in captivity aloud every morning. Something to keep him sane. They’d arrived in early March, and as long as he keeps a mental record he can add up the math later.

By the tenth day, Sam has already started to ache for a glimpse of familiar sunshine through the ever-present Ifreann storm clouds, but the wet, choking darkness overhead never seems to ebb in this infernal place.

By the time he reaches a count of thirty, Sam fears the deep bruising under his eyes may be permanent. He’s running on less sleep than he ever has before, constantly nervous that Lucifer will rouse from his slumber at an odd hour, expecting his ever more terrifying carnal whims to be immediately satisfied. Sam had happened to be dozing the first time such a situation arose, and the archduke had added an extra layer of punishment to their coupling for his inattention. It wasn’t an experience Sam wished to live through more than once. He’d quickly trained himself to wake at any slight shift of movement during the night, just in case, but the constant fits and starts leave him irritable and weary, even on a good day. He still prefers it to the alternative.

It isn’t until Sam gets into the low fifties that he’s finally forced to admit to himself that there is no ‘later’. Not ever. He’d simply been fooling himself thinking that playing at the hope of normalcy could be anything but a wasted expenditure of time. There’s no point in marking his prison sentence if he’ll never be released. What difference does one month make, or one hundred? He’ll die here. He’ll die here slowly while Queen Lisa tenderly mends the pieces of his brother’s broken heart. Dean is probably in love with her already and Sam can’t fault him for it. After all, what point is there in remaining true to a man who’s turned his back on you?

Once he’s eventually given up the counting, the long, chilly days all seem to blur together. Sam has taken to cloistering himself in their shared chambers during the daylight hours, as it’s the only way to avoid his husband in passing. Lucifer is constantly coming and going through the halls with all sorts of sealed communications and secretive affairs of state. Sam had made a half-hearted effort to explore his new home in the first few weeks of his self-induced incarceration, but the archduke had edged impossibly crueler every time he’d caught him wandering too close to the castle’s entrance, and Sam’s grown tired of testing the limits of his boundaries. Victory only brings him more ominous, empty rooms. Defeat isn’t a pleasant notion to dwell on if he doesn’t have to.

The keep is mostly deserted as far as Sam can tell. He knows that the duchess must reside somewhere—after all, this is Lilith’s country as well as her cousin’s—but the grounds are so crooked and sprawling that her rooms could be half a league away and she’d still technically be living within the castle’s borders. Lucifer also doesn’t hold court, apparently, as the servants are the only souls Sam ever sees other than the archduke himself. Though they duck their heads and scatter every time he passes by, probably forbidden to speak if not directly ordered to by Lucifer himself. His husband seems like that kind of man.

With no living souls to distract him, Sam tries to lose himself in the few books he comes across, dusty, ancient things he finds laying about here and there, but he only ever seems to make it through a few pages before his ennui takes hold of him again and he finds his attention wandering. The heroes remind him of Dean, the villains remind him of himself, and the idle pastime brings him muted stirrings of guilt instead of the joy it once did.

It’s early evening during one of the endless, damp days that compose his time now, though you wouldn’t think it given the pitch-dark midnight of the weather outside, when something altogether unexpected happens.

Sam has forgotten the feel of unexpected. Surprises are miserable affairs now, the sound of his husband’s fist at their door somehow more dreadful than a sleep-gruff command in the middle of the night as has become usual. But the short, bearded stranger who suddenly walks into his room does not knock. He simply strolls right in and shuts the door behind him, like this is his castle. Like Lucifer wouldn’t have his head on a platter in a split second for entering his chambers unannounced. Sam should probably find it terrifying, the blatant disregard for a ruler that powerful, but he finds the man’s demeanor oddly amusing instead. _Comforting_ , in a way, that there’s someone else in this wretched place who holds no respect for the almighty archduke.

His visitor’s height and appearance read unassuming more than anything else, but he holds himself with a grace far too practiced for him to be commonblood. And the calmness with which he nonchalantly strides over to pour himself a goblet of Lucifer’s wine speaks to the sense of entitlement. The man might be a knight. Ser Abaddon clearly held similar beliefs about her ruler’s authority, though Sam snorts as he takes in the display of familiarity obviously meant for his benefit. It’s unnecessary. His attire would single him out as a resident of the keep even if his bearing hadn’t. He’s dressed solely in black, just like everyone else in this godforsaken country. Even _Sam_ , now that he’s hatefully dependent on the limited wardrobe that Lucifer had tailored for him. It’s all heavy, dark fabrics and tight silhouettes in the Ifreann fashion, and Sam can barely move these days without fearing he’ll rip the shirt wrapped snug around his waist. Or give himself a fractured rib by trying to breathe too deeply.

After another long, anticlimactic moment, Sam rises to his feet from where he was seated at the foot of the bed, confused by his visitor’s continuing silence. “Can I help you?” he asks carefully.

But the man simply takes a slow sip of his drink, deliberately eying up the full length of Sam’s body before leaning a hip back against the table. “Well, I can’t say Lucifer’s got bad taste,” he mentions casually. He obviously isn’t talking about the wine.

Sam feels the unwanted attention creep across the back of his neck, his curiosity immediately evaporating into annoyance. “Look,” he grits out, thoroughly unamused now. “Ser—”

“Call me Crowley.”

“Look, Ser Crowley,” he echoes acerbically, “I _dearly_ appreciate the interest but—”

“Oh, good _Lord_ , no,” the man lets out in a huff of condescending laughter, “I’m not a knight. You honestly think I look the type to go blundering about an arena like an idiot, just so I can whack some bloke over the head with an oversized stick?” He sniffs, clearly fighting back a self-satisfied smile. “Think I’ll leave that to your typical, mutton-headed moose with more rocks in his brain than thoughts.” Crowley lifts the goblet to his lips again, faking nonchalant curiosity above the rim. “Though you were a knight, weren’t you?”

Sam bristles at the unsubtle nature of the insult, his fists clenching at his sides. The man may not be a knight of Ifreann, but he’s clearly pompous enough to be. Perhaps he’s a member of the lesser gentry. A baron or the like. Though Sam’s had more than enough dealings with nobility for one lifetime. He’s suddenly eager to be done with this exchange as quickly as possible.. “What are you doing here?” he asks curtly.

Crowley shrugs. “The duchess is away on holiday and, put simply, I have nothing better to do.”

The unexpected answer stalls him somewhat. Lilith is almost more chilling than Lucifer due to the rarity of her appearances, the mystery shrouding her affairs adding fuel to whatever fires Ifreann’s history can’t stoke on its own. There have been rumors of witchcraft. Of pacts and alliances with the Devil himself. Even _more_ insidious whispers that she bathes in the blood of unlucky chambermaids, but Sam’s always tried to maintain a level head when it comes to those kinds of outlandish accusations.

“Why?”

But Crowley doesn’t acknowledge the question, content to wander between the furnishings as if he’s assessing them for auction, and Sam finds himself regretting the infuriating waste of time this man’s appearance has brought with him, despite the break in the monotony. “What do you know of your land’s history before the Great Split?” he eventually asks, tucking one thumb behind his belt as he continues to survey the room. Like he simply sauntered into these chambers so that he could peruse the furniture and chat idly.

Sam just blinks at the ridiculous non-sequitur. “Excuse me?”

“Oh God, you’re not thick are you?” Crowley groans in disappointment. “That’d be just my luck, wouldn’t it? I finally get the boy alone and he’s as dull as a post.” He reaches out to scratch lightly at an end table. “Can’t blame you though,” he says distractedly. “You clearly look it.”

Sam sucks in a terse breath at the obvious prodding, goaded on despite himself. “Ifreann, Winchester, and the island of Neamh were all one kingdom once,” he says tightly, intentionally sprinkling as much classroom rote into the recitation as he can. “When King Charles first took the throne, he ordered a decree to parse the land into three equal shares, as the realm was far too large to be ruled by just one monarch. The northmost part was named Ifreann and given to his sister, Amara, Winchester in the south was granted to Henry, his most trusted, and he stayed to rule Neamh himself.” Sam lets the statement hang for a moment, unsure how much detail Crowley wants him to go into. “When King Henry died, the throne passed to his son John, and then his grandson Dean.”

“And Ifreann?”

Sam lets out an annoyed huff at the question. Any schoolchild should know this information. “When the Archduchess passed, her land was inherited by her son, Lucifer.”

“ _Archduchess_ ,” Crowley scoffs snidely, “it isn’t even a real title is it? The highest rank below king itself? It’s complete bollocks. He just bestowed it on her because she was so very special to him.”

The endless riddles and subject changes are becoming exhausting, so Sam crosses the room in one sure stride to snatch the goblet out of the other man’s fingers and deposit it back onto the table with a definitive thunk. “Is there some reason you’re here to torture me with old history lessons?” he snits. Then the vindictive bit of him that hasn’t quite been tamped down yet rears its head and Sam smirks, twisting Crowley’s own words around on him. “Or are you just thick?”

Crowley’s mouth curls into a sly smile at the turnabout. “There’s a clever lad,” he purrs, as if Sam has finally passed some secret test. He rubs his fingers together, the dust falling to twirl and dance in the limited light from the room’s flickering candles. “And a clever lad like you couldn’t possibly be content wasting his life away in these moldy old chambers.”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Sam says darkly.

“Fair enough,” Crowley chuckles. “But what if I told you that I could help you make one?”

“I’m not interested.”

He wiggles an intrusive finger in Sam’s face. “I think you will be,” he says assuredly, then continues on as if Sam has already agreed to hear him out. “I have quite an interesting collection of secrets, moose.” Sam’s nose wrinkles at the nickname, but Crowley pays him no mind. “And as all wise men know, knowledge is the greatest tool to have at one’s disposal. _For example_ ,” he says, turning on his heel, “I know who your real daddy was—as does Lucifer, I’m sure.”

Sam expends all his effort on remaining outwardly calm. “If you’re expecting me to be impressed,” he says dryly, “you’re a little late to that party.”

Crowley grins again, every brief display of wit apparently entertaining him further. “I’m torturing you with old history lessons because I’m trying to stop it from repeating itself,” he explains. “Because a man unaware of his own past,” Crowley says philosophically, hand twisting in the air, “is like a war horse with blinders on. That is to say, very quickly _dead_.”

Sam frowns slightly as he tries to unravel the man’s complicated wordplay. “Lucifer would never enter into another war,” he points out. “King Charles would support Winchester, same as the last time. He couldn’t possibly take on both lands. He failed even trying.”

“And what about when dear old King Charles finally kicks the proverbial bucket?” Crowley proffers. “After all, even the most beloved ruler can’t live forever.”

“Then the crown prince, Michael, would take his place.”

The sharp bite of laughter in response surprises him. “He most certainly would not,” Crowley says definitively.

Sam raises an eyebrow at the ridiculous assertion. “Michael is the oldest of the Neamhean line,” he spells out slowly, like he’s speaking to a small child.

“But _not_ the purest.”

“You—you’re implying he’s commonborn?” Sam frowns as the wheels in his head start to turn. “Alright, then that would mean that until he marries, Raphael is next in line for the throne.”

Crowley just smirks at him, smug as a swine in the mud. “Of course not,” he says with that same infuriating pretention, “Raphael is Charles’s third son, not the second.”

Sam is now thoroughly and completely lost. “Can you not just say what you mean?” he asks in frustration. “Preferably _before_ this conversation becomes more difficult to trek through than a briar patch?”

Crowley throws on a self-satisfied expression at finally confounding him, or proving himself more clever, or whatever else that unnecessary verbal tangle was supposed to accomplish. “What if Charles’s secondborn happened to be a little… _closer to home_ , as it were?”

Sam can practically feel his pupils dilate as the whole shocking picture slowly starts to come to him. “That’s impossible,” he whispers dumbly. “No, that’s not— Lucifer is _Amara’s_ son, not…” But Crowley just continues to stare at him, steady and unblinking, until he finally catches on. “You can’t actually mean—” Sam stutters again, doing absolutely nothing to redeem his intelligent reputation in Crowley’s eyes. “King Charles…and his _sister?”_ he finally hisses, aghast despite himself as he tries not to let the hypocrisy eat away at his innards.

“What, you think your King John was the only ruler with scandal gilded into his throne?”

“But…that would make Lucifer the true heir to both Ifreann and Neamh.” Sam’s eyebrows draw down to a furrowed point . “A bastard heir, but nonetheless.”

“A bastard heir with only one land left,” Crowley reminds him soberly, not breaking Sam’s gaze until he’s sure his point has landed. He finally reaches into his shirt to pull out a large key, exactly like the ones Lucifer wears around his neck, and the tarnished bronze glimmers dully as he dangles it like a carrot in front of Sam’s nose. This must be what he’s been building to this entire time. “Did you never wonder how Lucifer knew the truth about you in the first place?” he asks, and Sam feels like a clod at the realization that he hadn’t thought to question that fact—intent as he was on wallowing in his own misery. “There are always spies in one’s midst, _Your Grace_ ,” Crowley says deliberately, and Sam shudders at the hateful new epithet, almost wishing the man would stick to the more derogatory hoofed animal theme. “The only question that remains,” he continues smoothly, “is whether you’re clever enough to spot them.” Crowley holds the key out again, nudging Sam to take it. “I can give you an answer to every single one of your questions and all I expect in return is for you to do something about it.”

Sam reaches out to grasp the forbidden fruit of an offering, but hesitates at the last moment, his fingers halting just above the other man’s palm.

“I’m not asking for much,” Crowley quickly prods. “Trust me, once you learn the truth, you’ll even _want_ to.”

And Sam closes his fingers around his own fate. Of course he does. What else is there for him to lose at this point? “Why are you helping me?” he asks quietly. “You’re clearly of Ifreann blood.”

Crowley lets out an amused snort. “ _Please_ ,” he says derisively. “It doesn’t take a sailor to notice when the tides are shifting. Now I have nothing against despots myself, mind you, but the archduke’s on a mission from the Devil, and he’ll raze everything in his path to get there.” He takes a step backwards, clearly intent on making his exit now that he’s finished with his little con, but his eyes remain fixed on Sam’s the whole way. “And the thing is, moose,” he says warmly, “considering that I rather _like_ this path, an intelligent type like myself might just decide to raze him first.”

It isn’t anything he hadn’t been expecting, but Sam stills feels a curl of unease at placing himself on the same side as this man at all. Even against Lucifer. He fingers the heavy key in his hand, knowing for certain that accepting this help is tantamount to a promise to uphold _his_ end of their vaguely worded deal. And he would. He’d have to. Sam does not want to be indebted to someone like Crowley. “Why should I trust you?” he asks finally, right before Crowley can actually make his leave. “You could just be a trick sent by Lucifer. To test my loyalty. How could you even possibly know all this?”

Crowley pauses at the doorway, his dark silhouette filling the corners of Sam’s vision. “Our Lady Duchess talks in her sleep,” he says evenly. And then he’s gone. As if Sam had been alone with his thoughts this entire time. Only the key burning a hole in his palm to indicate that anyone else had ever crossed his threshold.

Sam knows what it’s for. There’s only one thing it could be for. Only one piece of furniture in this room that’s consistently remained locked since the very first day he arrived here. The large, sturdy wood desk shoved into the room’s corner. So deliberately and immaculately cared for that it must be important. He’s taking his own life into his hands at even _thinking_ about betraying Lucifer’s trust in such a way. But, honestly? It isn’t much of a life anyhow. Not anymore, at least.

Sam does expend the effort to close the door Crowley left open though. It would be _more_ suspicious if he’d left it ajar, as he usually tends to shut himself up in here like a monk on punishment detail. Plus, any brief scrabbling to open it might give him enough time to conceal his poking around if he’s caught. Sam lets out a bitter huff of breath at the optimistic thought. Not likely.

Once the room is as secure as he can make it, Sam heads over to the desk. The dark wood seems sinister in a way it never quite did before as it looms before him, but Crowley’s key fits into the lock as smoothly as if its been oiled. Sam carefully, _quietly_ eases the drawer latch down so that it doesn’t creak, pathetically proud of the fact that at least his hands are steady.

It’s packed full of letters. Stacks and stacks of faded, folded parchment almost filling the small space to brimming. Sam mentally chuckles at himself at the disappointing reveal. What _else_ would be in a writing desk, after all? He allows himself a slight quirk of his lips, then pulls one of the papers out of the drawer to examine it. The front looks as expected, addressed to Lucifer in a careful hand and inky black lettering, but when Sam flips the envelope over, the horrifying and impossible sight takes his breath away.

Centered on the back of the message, cracked and dry with age, is Winchester’s crest. The flaming pentacle. Carefully pressed into the seal so each line is stark and distinct and perfect. But instead of the usual Winchester silver, the colored wax is a bright, sickly yellow. Azazel’s trademark. Sam has seen streams of the advisor’s messages arrive to and from the castle in his life, just like everyone who had lived on the grounds. He’d even had to post some of those messages himself when Bobby was indisposed for some reason or another. This letter couldn’t possibly be here, in Lucifer’s private desk, for any innocent reason.

Sam’s mind runs through a sea of justifications at first, desperate to give his father’s advisor—a man Sam had considered a colleague, a man Sam had _trusted_ —the benefit of the doubt. It must be from back during the war. Perhaps the date on the front is incorrect. But there’s no mistaking his own kingdom’s crest. Azazel had sent this correspondence from within his castle’s walls. That’s how Lucifer had known about him. About Dean. _Spies in his midst_ , indeed.

Sam yanks out as many envelopes as he can, separating every bit of nauseating yellow into its own stack. Some of the plainer silver missives are from someone named Alastair, and it takes him a moment to recognize the vaguely familiar name from Winchester’s own history.

Bobby had recounted the entire story to he and Dean back when they were children. King Henry had passed away when John was just a boy and his wife, Queen Millicent, had followed him some time later. _Alastair_ was the Ifreann diplomat—back when Winchester and Ifreann, as sister kingdoms, had no bad blood or distrust to speak of—instated as regent until John came of age. He’d been an uneventful ruler as far as Sam can recall, neither loved nor hated, but when John had turned eighteen, Alastair refused to relinquish the throne. It’s what started the war between Winchester and Ifreann in the first place. Five years of blood and fighting and death until King Charles had stepped in and chosen sides. Alastair was killed, John emerged victorious, and Lucifer had offered Azazel, his greatest war strategist, to Winchester as part of the terms of surrender.

Sam swallows back the bile in his throat at the implications of the paper in his hand. It was never a secret that Lucifer must have been the one pulling Alastair’s strings, but laying eyes on the actual, tangible proof is an entirely different thing indeed. He tosses away the time-worn letter, uninterested in the information he already knows, base though it may be, and focuses on Lucifer’s exchanges with Azazel instead.

There are about twenty or so notes between them, with each preceding message from Lucifer carefully tucked back inside the following response to present an organized and unbroken discourse. Sam shuffles them into logical order as best he can, going off the messily scrawled dates on the envelopes. Though he has to pause for a moment at the sheer scope of the correspondences. They go back decades. Ranging from before Sam was even born to this exact year.

The very first one is from Azazel, the creased lines and yellowed parchment denoting the letter’s age. Sam squints a little as he attempts to make out the faded handwriting.

 

_Happily, this missive brings with it joyous news. The Queen of Winchester is barren. I have learned this information straight from one of the royal physicians himself. Of course, afterwards, I made most certain that he won’t be spreading the news to anyone else. There is no recourse for John now other than a marriage to your cousin, the Duchess Lilith. This is a time for celebration, Your Grace. I await the coming betrothal announcement with bated breath. Alastair may have failed you, Milord, but I shall not._

****

Lucifer’s reply, although more recognizable due to the flourished hand, is noticeably less cordial.

****

**_I am most underwhelmed, Azazel. The news of the queen’s pregnancy has reached even here. You assured me it could not possibly be so, and yet somehow it is. Lord knows you were Ifreann’s greatest strategist during the wars, but if you cannot provide me with a worthwhile strategy in this, then I have no further use for you._ **

****

_I assure you my report was genuine, Milord. The physician pleaded for his life between his screams. He was not lying. I am entirely bewildered by the state of things, but I swear that I will uncover the truth of the events here in Winchester. No matter how long it takes. I will not let you down again._

Sam swallows heavily at what he’s just read, almost unable to believe the cruelty of the man he’d thought he’d known. Had lived alongside for years. Sam suppresses a heavy shiver and continues to read. The next letter is from Lucifer, and dated three years later.

****

**_I’ve just received word that the queen is pregnant again. The first child still lives. The king still lives. Fix this, Azazel. I am not pleased._ **

****

_It was a wicked ruse, Your Grace. A parlor trick. The sinister, lying snakes planned out the entire thing just to make fools of us all. The queen is not the prince’s dam. King John’s bastard was borne of a simple scullery wench, and that’s all he is. Commonborn scum. I have handled the queen. I’m sure the news will reach you soon. I will handle the broodmare as well, hopefully before she can birth any more of John’s illegitimate spawn._

****

**_I thank you for your dedicated service, Azazel. I have warmly received news of the queen’s passing, but the whelps are of no use to me. I see no reason not to grind the entire Winchester line out with the heel of my boot while the opportunity presents itself._ **

****

_King John has shown himself to be a formidable enemy in every way, Your Grace. It stands to reason that any attempt on his life now would prove just as difficult as in the past. Patience will surely be our ally in this matter. I suggest we bide our time, as another war would only risk your own safety. Earning the throne legitimately will win the hearts and minds of the people far more securely than a violent usurpation would._

**_I defer to your wisdom and experience, old friend. If you suggest a marriage, then a marriage it will be. The elder one will be far too much of a challenge, however. He’ll be trained for the throne from infancy and I have nothing to offer as leverage. But if, as you say, the younger bastard is being raised as commonblood, then he will be far easier to tempt._ **

****

_We shall still have to wait until the crown prince is of age. Acting on John’s life now would just ensure that a regent is instated if we succeeded. We should not make the same mistake twice. Winchester will not trust Ifreann again with such a task._

Sam can feel the breath grow short in his chest, like his own skin is tightening around him. All of it had been a lie. Every word. Lucifer had wanted him for his blood, not his body. He was merely a stepping stone on the way to Winchester’s throne. A chess piece to be played and discarded as needed in the quest to topple his opponent’s king.

It really shouldn’t surprise him that much, all things considered. Crowley had even hinted at it himself only moments ago, but there’s something sickening in reading about yourself being spoken of as chattel. Sam returns to his task with a renewed fervor, trying to quell the uneasy racing of his mind and his heart.

The next several messages are disjointed. Bits and pieces of strategies and references that mean nothing to him. Sam skips over what he can’t understand and picks up the next letter he can decipher. The date inked onto the thick paper is almost two full decades after the last one.

**_I have tried to remain patient with you, old friend. John’s first bastard came of age a full twelve months ago, and yet the king still remains an ever-present thorn in my side. You assured me his death would be handled swiftly and with care. Should I perhaps appoint another in your stead? Someone who will not disappoint me the way you seem to be so intent on doing?_ **

 

_The king is not an easy target to eliminate, Milord. Not if we want it to look like an act of chance. Otherwise you would have succeeded yourself back during the wars. And with the greatest due respect, I know that particular failing wasn’t for lack of trying._

 

Sam’s reaching the end of the stack now. There are no more letters missing from the pile, yet the next one is dated years later.

****

**_Five years, Azazel. I have been far too lenient with you for far too long a time. If something isn’t done quickly, perhaps I shall have to journey to Winchester myself. I doubt such a visit would bode well for you._ **

****

_There is a ship I have requisitioned. A solo voyage I have finally convinced the king to take after years of subtle prodding. He will not return from the trip. Trust is slowly earned, Your Grace, and with this act, I hope I have also regained yours._

**_The elder bastard is betrothed. I fear we have waited too long. My only recourse now is to woo the younger pup as quickly as I can. I will have only a few days in Winchester as a guest of this mockery of a wedding. If I cannot secure the boy before his brother marries the princess, then I will have to take the throne by malice. The way I yearned to years ago, despite your continuing cautions. No one will miss that foolish upstart of a king or his simpering bride. I trust that you shall be able to manage the particulars of such an endeavor the way you did with his parents. The way Alastair did with his grandparents. I can reveal the truth of the younger mongrel’s lineage myself, after the other two are dealt with. As long as I have a Winchester chained to my marriage bed, the crown will safely pass to me._ **

****

_It shall be handled, Milord._

 

Thirty years of treachery, detailed in black ink and Winchester blood.

Sam’s heart gives a lopsided throb as he suddenly lurches to his feet, fear racing queasily through his body. Dean’s in danger. _Dear Christ_ , Lisa is as well. He hadn’t saved his brother’s life by leaving, by spitting his love and devotion back in his face, he’d doomed it. A hailstorm of insults upon an unforgiveable injury.

He leaves the incriminating letters scattered where they’d fallen. It doesn’t matter anymore. Lucifer can’t kill him while he still needs him, and Sam would rather suffer a thousand agonies than remain passive while Dean’s life is at stake. He only stalls long enough to shove his feet into his boots before he’s sprinting out of the room and down the nearest corridor. He can only vaguely recall the way out—mazelike and twisting as the hallways are in this abominable place—but it only takes him a few false turns and retraced steps before he finally finds himself at the castle entryway.

The heavy rain falling from the sky outside sounds like bits of glass pelting down to crash against the cobblestones, and Sam is actually grateful for the monstrous weather for the first time since he’s arrived here, as the low torrent will disguise the thudding tread of his boots slapping against the stone. He streaks out into the storm, flashes of lightning illuminating the main square just enough for him to see by—one brief, faltering moment at a time. The dawdling, rolling thunderclaps echoing afterwards just add more wonderful noise to cover his hasty escape.

He may not have had any chance to explore these grounds, but Sam was raised in a castle and he knows where the stables are most likely to be.

Thankfully, the structure is seemingly abandoned for the time being. Sam ducks inside out of the rain, ignoring the smell of wet hay and horseshit to make a straight line for the closest saddled mount, a grey, dappled gelding who nickers quietly at his approach. Winchester is almost a full day’s ride away by carriage. On horseback it will take even longer, even if he never stops for a moment’s break. If it were remotely feasible, Sam would bring two horses. If he had any power over the situation whatsoever, he’d saddle up a pair and switch off his weight between the both of them for the journey. But every second he wastes is another second Lucifer has to find he’s gone missing. It’s another second Azazel has to put his monstrous plan into motion. Sam simply doesn’t have the time to risk. Not when Dean’s life is at stake.

He knows he is going to ride this horse to death.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers raggedly, guilt aching in his throat as he strokes a trembling finger down the animal’s muzzle. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.” A soft creak from the main door reminds him that there’s no telling when the stable master will return, so he loops his hand around the reins and tugs the horse back outside into the downpour. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals no flurry of movement from the castle and Sam starts to think he might just make it out unscathed when his horse startles a bit and yanks back on the lead.

A pair of black leather boots block their path—attached to a pair of long, black-clad legs—attached to the torso, shoulders, and grim, stone-like countenance of Ser Cain. He doesn’t say a word as he stands there, unblinking in the dark, soaking rain, and Sam’s breath catches in his chest at the silent face-off. Another bolt of lightning highlights the knight’s silhouette from behind, needlessly adding to the heightened moment of terror, but he simply watches and waits for an explanation.

There’s only one Sam can think of to offer, foolish as it may be. The _truth_. “…This isn’t about me,” he tries dumbly, only raising his voice just enough to be heard over the rain. “I swear this isn’t just me trying to escape. Or trick anyone. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Cain remains motionless and silent.

Sam’s heart picks up in his chest as he begins to worry that he might have to fight the man to get past him. Bare-knuckled brawling isn’t exactly his forte, but he’s studied in all aspects of combat. He has a good chance of coming out the victor despite his leaner frame. The only truly uncertain element is time. A scuffle might stall Sam long enough for Lucifer to catch wind of his flight. He needs to avoid that scenario at all costs.

“Please,” he tries one last time, “I beg you. It’s about my brother. I have a brother and he’s in danger. I need to warn him. That’s all this is.” Sam puts as much honesty into his eyes as he can, willing to get down onto his knees and _plead_  if that’s what it takes. “It’s the one thing—the _only_ thing I care about,” he says throatily.

Cain offers nothing in response, his expression as unflinchingly stoic as ever, and for one, heart-stopping moment, Sam thinks the man is going to drag him back into the castle by force if need be. But then the knight takes a single step back, nodding once, and tilts his body to let them pass.

Sam doesn’t question his luck, doesn’t spare the knight a second glance, doesn’t even stop to express his thanks. He simply sticks one foot in the stirrups and swings himself onto his horse, kicking the gelding into movement the moment he’s settled. His mount instantly bolts into a run underneath him and Sam races away from his prison and into the sweet embrace of the dark, all in the space of his next breath. He doesn’t look behind him once.

Sam rides for one night and one day without stopping. Not for food, not for sleep, not even for a respite from the freezing, sleeting rain. The weather had eased a little, the closer he got to his homeland, but not enough to provide any sense of warmth or hope. He has to slow his horse down to a trot every couple of miles too, letting the poor thing rest as much as he can in between sprints, but he ends up pushing it back to galloping speed sooner and more recklessly after each short break. Sam knows Lucifer must be right behind him. Ignorance of his departure won’t have lasted long. The archduke won’t be bringing any men with him, as unannounced forces marching onto Winchester territory could easily be read as an act of war, but even his single coach will have the luxury of splitting the weight between multiple steeds. He won’t need to slow as often as Sam does, which means that Sam desperately needs to press the advantage of his head start every chance he gets.

The sun is well under the horizon again by the time his goal finally looms up in the distance, though Sam is half afraid the castle residents might turn him away on sight. He looks far more like a lunatic beggar right now than the prince or knight or duke he supposedly is—if he could ever keep his stupid halfblood, bastard titles straight. He feels ragged to the very bone, and would probably look it even without the day’s growth on his chin and bruised circles under his eyes. The heavy Ifreann shirt he’d initially thought might bring him some measure of protection from the rain had quickly became waterlogged instead, and has been chafing and scratching against his tender skin for so long that the pain is now bordering on unbearable. Plus, his fingers ache with the cold and have become so numb and shivery he can barely hold onto the reins.

Not that his horse is doing any better. The poor thing’s chest has been heaving underneath him for the last several hours and foam is now frothing dangerously around the bit in its mouth. Sam slams his eyes shut against his own cruelty and nudges the gelding again when it starts to falter. “Please,” he whispers, more to the Heavens above than the dying animal between his legs. “Please, just a little more.”

But apparently he’s run out of any luck he had, and the horse finally lurches and collapses underneath him after a few more steps. Sam doesn’t even make an attempt to roll away safely, through sheer fatigue or just acceptance, and he catches his knee painfully against the hard-packed mud of the road as he goes down. He doesn’t have the energy to react to the sharp pain suddenly radiating from his leg either. He simply rolls onto his back and twists his head to take in his equally doomed mount, its legs twitching as its heart starts to give out, hooves making sickening grooves in the wet earth as it struggles for purchase. The froth from its mouth is faintly tinted pink now, and Sam just lies there and lets the stinging rain pelt against his face as he lets out a laugh of sheer, hysterical misery.

At any other given time, he would be horrified. At the sight. At himself. At the situation. Once, when he was a child, he’d spotted a bleating fawn at the bottom of a shallow gorge and he’d run half a league back to the castle just to demand that his brother help him save the poor thing. Of course, Sam hadn’t known Dean was his brother back then, just his best friend. His perfect, strong, brave hero of a best friend who always knew what to do and could make anything better. He’d dragged Dean down to the cliffs and made him climb into the ravine so that he could carry the baby deer back up to its mother. That Sam, all of nine summers, would have cried his heart out at this innocent creature’s fate. This Sam can’t even bring himself to care. All his caring is reserved for Dean now. Every last drop.

So he pushes past the pain, swiping the mud from his forehead as he drags himself to his feet. Lucifer is still behind him, but Sam can see the castle rising above the misty treetops. He can’t be more than an hour away. If he runs, he can still make it. Sam hardens his heart until he can ignore the animal panting and gasping and dying behind him, then points himself towards the castle and heads out on foot through the pouring rain. His boots slipping in the mud and his injured leg burning with every step as he clumsily makes his way home.

Though he feels like he’s dying too once he finally reaches the castle entrance. _Fitting, really_ —he can’t help but think— _if he’d managed to make it all this way only to keel over now._ The guards had let him through the instant they recognized him under the soaking filth, but Kevin is just standing inside the main doors, mouth open and gaping as he takes in the unexpected sight at this late hour.

“ _Sam?”_ he blurts out before he can stop himself, then he immediately beckons Sam in out of the rain as he scrambles to cover. “I mean, _Your Grace_. What are you doing here?”

Sam lets out a pained huff of laughter as he crosses the threshold of the castle proper. He’s actually done it. He’s made it. Dean is going to be alright, all thanks to him. He’s actually going to _fix_ things this time. “I’m here to confess,” Sam announces weakly, trying not to drip too much on the expensive rugs lining the entryway.

Kevin just stares at him a moment longer before his sense of propriety clicks back into place. “O-of course, Your Grace,” he says slowly. “If that’s what you wish. But…surely Ifreann has its own chapels?”

Another wisp of bitter laughter escapes from Sam’s throat before he can think better of it. “I’m not here to confess my sins, Kevin,” he says, more amused than he should be at the slight misunderstanding, but perhaps the exhaustion is to blame for that. He _would_. He would if Dean were there to listen. But that’s not what this is about. This is about Sam finally putting to right what had gone so terribly wrong. This is about Sam sorting out his own damnable mess before anyone else can get hurt. Before _Dean_ can get hurt. No matter what it takes.

Sam straightens his posture as best he can with the way his body is screaming at him and looks Kevin right in the eye. Steady and certain and resolved. “I’m here to confess to attempted murder.” He pauses for a moment, allowing himself one more breath of free air before he hammers the last nail into his own coffin. “And an intent,” Sam declares firmly, “to commit treason against the crown.”

 


	15. Dungeon

“What the _fuck_ is going on here, Sam?” Dean barks, letting the rough wooden door slam back on its hinges as he descends the steps into the dank air of the castle dungeon. Being awoken in the middle of the night is enough to put him in a foul mood at the best of times. Being awoken in the middle of the night to be told that not only has his brother returned to Winchester against his express permission, but he’s done so in order to confess to a murder plot is enough to have Dean spitting fire.

“The prisoner has confessed to treason, Your Majesty,” the guard on watch informs him dutifully. “And to being involved in a scheme—along with his husband, the archduke Lucifer, and your court advisor, Azazel—to take the lives of both you and your queen in the name of Ifreann.”

“And to spread rumors damaging to the crown in an attempt to usurp my throne, which is an act of war upon Winchester itself,” Dean parrots short-temperedly. “I am aware of the _charges_ , Lafitte.” It’s a callous move, referring to the guardsman by his last name when he and Benny are on a much more familiar—even _friendly_ —basis day-to-day. They’d fucked once, years ago, when they were both in their cups. It was all fumbling hands and drunken laughter up against the wall of the stables, nothing lasting or meaningful, but Dean’s still being an utter ass by pulling rank now. He’s too tired to care at the moment.

Sam’s outline hasn’t moved an inch from where Dean can barely make him out through the iron bars, so he swings his attention to the chamber’s other occupied cell instead. Azazel is sprawled haphazardly across the grimy stone, though clearly still breathing, and Dean tries not to break a tooth from the way he’s suddenly clenching his jaw in frustration. “Why is he unconscious?”

“Sam—” Benny starts unthinkingly before hastily correcting himself, “—the _prisoner_ , that is, had impressed on us that allowing Azazel to form and twist any lies in his defense would be harmful to your life, Majesty. And that he should be captured and subdued first until you could give the order for what you’d want to do with him.”

His brother still hasn’t moved a muscle. Not since Dean’s arrival. Maybe he’s been motionless from the instant he’d been thrown behind those bars. “Get out,” Dean orders quietly.

“Sire?”

“I said _get_ _out._ Do you have cotton jammed in your ears or are you just an idiot?”

Benny shifts back at the insult, though he appears more confused than offended. “But…Your Majesty, the prisoner is charged with treason against the crown.” He drops the official act for one moment, radiating nothing but familiar concern. “It ain’t safe.”

The sincerity of the statement manages to dampen Dean’s ire somewhat and he allows himself a full inhale and exhale before his words can get too heated. “I think I’ll be able to handle one lanky insurrectionist clad in irons,” he says pointedly. “Don’t you? Or do you have that little faith in your king?”

Benny immediately ducks his head in apology, saluting with a fist to his breast, and then he turns on his heel to wait obediently outside the door, leaving them alone in the dingy light of a single flickering torch.

Just the barest glimpse of Sam, just the sound of his uneven breathing from across the small chamber, just the _knowledge_ that they’re both sharing one space again sends a crack splintering through the dam Dean had prayed was sealed. He can even feel his damnable cock start to stir in interest, more eagerly than it’s done in quite a while, though that’s Sam’s fault more than his own. Because he looks different somehow after his stay in the north. Sharper, even in the poor light. Harder. Like all of Dean’s darkest desires put together. His hair curling in wet tendrils against the back of his neck. Tight, black trousers showcasing his long, lean legs. His dark, rain-soaked shirt cut indecently close to his body. He looks like sin incarnate, an incubus sent solely to tempt him.

Dean will not fall for his charms so easily this time.

“Nothing to say?” he asks coldly, slowly approaching the man he’d dreamed about every single night since they’d been parted. Sam winces a little at his curt tone, but remains unresponsive, turned away so that Dean can only make out the half of his face not cut away into shadow. In his dreams, Sam is penitent and desperate. Constantly on his knees and pleading for his forgiveness. Not silent like this.

In his dreams, Sam never showed up on his doorstep claiming to want him dead.

His brother looks surprisingly slight and vulnerable behind the thick, sturdy bars as Dean finally steps closer—as he _observes_ a little closer. It should be a near impossible task for a man of Sam’s stature, but he pulls it off with a finesse approaching on pitiful. He seems thinner than usual too, now that Dean’s actually paying attention, like meals have been more of an annoyance than a necessity since he’s seen him last. And the dark shadows cut under his eyes and across his cheekbones almost eclipse the fact that his wrists have clearly dwindled from their usual ‘delicate’ to full-on ‘frail’. _Good_ —Dean thinks pettily. _It’s exactly what the selfish bastard deserves_. But then Sam shifts a bit in his chains, wincing like the heavy cuffs are chafing at his skin, and Dean’s traitorous heart lurches protectively. Throbs in yearning for a face he hasn’t seen in months. It practically leaps from his chest to try and jump through the bars to soothe his brother’s ache, and he has to thump a fist over his sternum to get the disobedient organ back under control.

“What month is it?”

The whisper rasp of Sam’s voice is so quiet that Dean wouldn’t have heard him at all if he wasn’t standing directly outside his cell.

“What?”

Sam’s eyes drop to his bound wrists on a shivery exhale, the shadows of his eyelashes wavering in the torchlight dancing over his cheekbones. “The month,” he repeats softly, “what is it?”

Dean is caught off-guard by the unexpected opener. He’d predicted begging or pleading, maybe. A desperate request for Dean to spare his life due to their history. An explanation for Sam’s ludicrous claims of attempted regicide. Perhaps even a hissed remark taunting Dean for ever believing that he could have actually loved him. Offhand questions about the date weren’t even on the list. It’s a ruse, most likely. A way to cast him onto unsure footing. So Dean shores up every last bit of cold fury he has left and lets the ice find its way into his voice.

“How could you not know what month it is?” he asks tightly. “They not have calendars in Ifreann?”

Sam lets out a long breath, his gaze fixed on his heavy chains. “I got too tired,” he says, and he honestly sounds it. “I eventually stopped counting.”

Dean has no clue what to make of a statement like that, and his walls slip a little even as he hates himself for it. “It’s June, Sam.”

His brother glances dolefully up at him for a moment, the first time since that fateful morning so long ago, then he forces out a broken not-quite-laugh. “Four months,” he says in a miserable little voice. “I could have been far too late. I’d never even have known.” Then there’s a muffled thud as the side of Sam’s head hits the bars. “ _Christ_ ,” he whispers, “I’m twenty-two.”

And the intimation that Sam had somehow been unaware of his own birthday passing sends a thick spool of unease curling in Dean’s gut. “Too late for what?” he can’t help asking, drawn in despite himself.

“Thought you hated me,” Sam says with a painful smile. “Never wanted me to step foot in your kingdom again. You actually care what I have to say?”

He does. He doesn’t think he’d know how to stop if he tried. He _has_ tried. “Too late for what, Sam?” Dean repeats again.

His brother’s breath hitches, like the simple permission has released something inside of him that he’d kept locked up for ages. “He knew, Dean,” Sam says, as if that explains everything. “Lucifer knew. About Mary, about _us_ , our blood.” The words quickly pick up speed, tumbling out of his mouth, one after another, as if he’s afraid Dean will take his assent back if Sam doesn’t get everything out in one breath. “He told me he wanted me—a lie, as I later found out—but how could I have known at the time? How could I have possibly known?”

The unease in Dean’s gut begins to swell into full-fledged fear. “Wait, slow down,” he says sternly. “You’re not making any sense.”

Sam finally turns those limpid eyes on him and the sheer amount of pain and regret in his stare unlocks something in Dean’s chest too, his anger slipping further away the harder he tries to grab for it, like a creek fish wriggling through his fingers. “The morning of your wedding,” his brother says, voice cracking like there’s a whole family of frogs in his throat, “I was going to come, Dean. I swear I was. I wasn’t angry, not at you. Never at you. I was willing to live with it, our arrangement, Lisa, everything. As long as I still had you where it counted.” He slams his eyes shut, wetness clinging to his lashes. Dean can’t tell if it’s tears or rainwater. “God, what I wouldn’t give to go back to how it was,” he whispers roughly. “But he found me. Told me that if I didn’t return with him to Ifreann, he’d reveal the truth about your lineage. Our treason. _John’s_ treason.” Sam meets his gaze again, desperate this time. His pupils mere pinpricks in a sea of terrified hazel. “You’d have been killed. I had to go with him, Dean. I had to save your life. Only, I couldn’t tell you, he made me lie. Said that if I didn’t—”

Dean watches his brother choke down another halting breath, dreadfully, _terrifyingly_ enrapt as the implications of Sam’s confession slowly drip over him like cold slime from the bottom of a lake. Every single emotion he’d clung to these past few months, the hatred keeping him afloat, the anger, the bitterness. The sharp-edged confusion he’d never let his mind worry at for long before he ripped his thoughts away. If it was all for naught…

The thought sends a wave of treacle trickling over Dean, sticking his lungs in his chest before creeping ever upwards to choke off his throat. Because if his brother’s words are true, if Sam had been protecting him this entire time while Dean had been wallowing in self-pity and cursing his name like a spoiled child, then that means he had lost faith in the one soul—the _only_ soul—worth saving in this miserable world. And how easily had he done so? A few cruel words, and that’s all it took for Dean to turn his back on a lifetime of devotion. Abandoning his brother to the whims of a bloodthirsty tyrant just so that he could nurse his own petty hurts. And the entire time, Sam had known. He had known and had martyred himself anyway. Happily submitting his hands for the crucifixion as long as Dean remained safe and unaware.

He’s suddenly never felt more deserving to be standing in a rat-infested, filth-caked dungeon. Only, his guards have got the wrong man in the cell.

“I agreed to marry Lucifer for your sake,” Sam continues in a breathless rush, completely blind to the fact that Dean feels like he’s just had his heart sucked out through his ribs. “For Winchester’s,” he says, “but I didn’t want him. _Never_. I didn’t _choose_ him—no matter what I said—not in any manner other than as a desperate attempt to save you.” Sam shoves a hand out through the bars, his chains clinking as they clash against the iron. “You have to believe me,” he begs, quiet but fierce, his fingers straining in the open air. “ _Please_. Before I die, please, Dean, just know that.”

Dean has just learned of every single one of his dire failings, and here Sam is beseeching _him_ , gazing up at him like the simplest nod can grant him his blessed peace. The chains around his brother’s wrists are wrapped too tightly for him to fit more than half a palm through his cage, but he wiggles through the gap anyway, fruitlessly reaching for Dean. Reaching for him like he has been his entire life. Searching for a forgiveness that Dean doesn’t have the right to give. Not when he doesn’t even have the words to begin to apologize. He just slowly, achingly collapses to his knees, reaching his own unworthy fingers out to wrap around Sam’s. He feels like he’s just aged one hundred years.

His brother immediately slumps against the bars at the contact, like a marionette whose strings have been slashed, not crying exactly, but just breathing erratically. His shoulders shaking as he sucks in large gulps of air in relief at just the simple touch. “I’m sorry for what I said,” he starts babbling again, his large, cold hand frantically clenching at Dean’s own. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean it. Not a damned word.” And this is more like the Sam from his bitter fantasies. Miserable. Begging for his forgiveness. Dean would give anything to never have to see it again.

“Sam,” Dean whispers through a dry throat. “Sammy, you don’t—” He slams his eyes shut, biting back the sour taste of his own guilt. It doesn’t matter. He can flagellate himself for all his mistakes later. He can prostrate himself at Sam’s feet. He can wrap his brother up in his own bedcovers, lock all the doors, and never let him leave his sight again _later_. Right now, Sam is in a cell and awaiting execution unless Dean can think of a way to save him. To save him the way he should have done the instant Lucifer got his ambitious claws into his brother’s foolish, overly sentimental heart, forcing him into a paper cut-out mockery of a wedding just to clear his path for his actual target. Dean’s crown. Or his throne. Or maybe just his head on a pike.

A thin, wavering ray of hope pierces through his despair at the morbid thought and he presses a brief kiss to Sam’s freezing fingers. “Everything will be alright,” he says reassuringly. Or as reassuring as he can muster at the moment. “Sam, if you didn’t—” He shakes his head. “If the wedding wasn’t real, then you’re a victim of Lucifer’s treachery too. I’ll talk to Benny, and to Kevin. Anyone else you confessed to. I’ll swear on my life you had nothing to do with this. They will as well. He doesn’t have a hold over you, Sam. If the marriage wasn’t consummated, it doesn’t count.”

Something dark and dreadful flashes over his brother’s eyes then. “It was,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Dean says simply, struggling to fight back the spike of agony that lances through him at those words. As if he has any right to still be jealous after everything. “That’s—that’s fine. It’s fair, even.” He tries for a weak smile, but it slips from his face like water. “I just—you said you didn’t want him.”

“I didn’t.” Sam timidly pulls his fingers back through his side of the bars, a thread of shame in his voice. “I don’t.”

There’s another lingering moment of confusion on Dean’s part before awareness spears its jagged claws into his splintering bones. _“What?”_ he forces out, barely a breath. Dean must be wrong. He must have misunderstood somehow, must have misread Sam somewhere along the way, but the haunted shadow cloaking his brother’s face speaks the truth more plainly than even a confession. “Did he—” He chokes, then tries again, struggling to get the words out. “He didn’t— Against your—?” Dean can’t finish any one of his sentences without fearing every centimeter of his skin will suddenly burst into searing flames. But Sam’s subtle flinch answers his question for him. And the bright flash of white-hot hatred rolls its way through him so fiercely that it propels him back up to his feet. “I will rip his withering cock from his loins and toss it to the _hunting dogs!”_ Dean roars, fury slamming against the walls of his heart like a caged tiger. He smashes a hand against the bars, relishing in the violent cacophony, the metallic crashing cascading off the dungeon’s walls sounding like thunder from an avenging god. “I’ll make him watch! _No_ —no, I’ll feed it to him _myself!”_

“Dean, shh,” Sam warns pleadingly.

He’s making too much noise, he knows he is, the racket might rouse Azazel, but Dean finds himself wanting that. He wants to wring the life out of both of them with his bare fucking hands. He wants to watch the light leave their eyes as he crushes their throats under his fists and sends them straight to Hell. But not right now. Not with his beautiful little brother left on the hook to suffer for their crimes. So Dean breathes. He breathes and he digs his fingernails into his palms and bites the inside of his lips bloody and forces himself to stare at Sam. Reminds himself of the consequences at stake if he doesn’t handle the next few hours exactly right. “How _dare_ he,” Dean rasps, quieter, holding himself in check through sheer force of will as he kneels back down before Sam. “How dare he lay a fucking _hand_ on you.”

“More than a hand,” Sam whispers, and there’s so much pain in his voice it might just shatter Dean to pieces.

“Shut _up_ , Sam!” he hisses, anything to drown the horrific image out of his own head. But the pain isn’t his to lash out with, and he aches at the realization that _he’s_ the reason for his brother’s flinch this time. “I’m sorry. Sammy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He reaches into Sam’s cell, groping for his bound hands. “Shh. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

They can barely touch through the bars, Dean’s forearm too wide for the spacing and Sam’s chained wrists limiting him on his end, but Dean can just reach his brother’s cheek, and the unexpected shadow of Sam’s stubble pricking against his palm brings a shaky smile to his face.

“You’re a stupid, self-sacrificing jackass, you know that?” Dean says, but there’s no heat in the words. “Why would you condemn yourself in this? Why not just accuse Lucifer? You could have been free of him with his death.”

Sam shakes his head lightly, exceedingly careful not to dislodge the hand from his face. “What could I possibly have said, Dean?” he asks rhetorically. “That he forced me into wedding him? _How?_ With what leverage?” He lets out an ugly sound. “If anyone were to pull at that thread of reasoning, our entire secret would unravel. And then we’d _both_ be executed for treason.” Sam finally looks up to catch Dean’s stare, but there’s nothing in his eyes other than unwavering belief in his insane decision. “You think I didn’t have time to think this through? To weigh every possible outcome? This is the only way to make sure you’re safe. No questions, no loose ends for people to pick at afterwards, and no risk to your reign.

“Look, I know it’s my fault,” Sam confesses, leaning even further into his touch. “I was selfish, Dean. I was so selfish. But I can’t help it. I’d rather have you hate me for the rest of my short life than be forced to live knowing you didn’t.”

It isn’t selfish in the slightest, but Dean bites back any more castigations for tonight. “And I was a fool for letting him take you away from me,” he says bitterly. “For actually believing that you would marry another out of spite. Even for one moment.” He slams his free hand against the cage again. “ _Fuck_ , I was an idiot. So blinded by my own pain that I didn’t even think to trust in your loyalty.” He tries in vain to raise his hand higher, attempting to sweep back the wet hair at Sam’s temples. “I have failed you in every possible way—”

“Dean, of course you haven’t.”

“—and I will not rest until I find some way to clear that debt.”

Sam abruptly shifts his entire body forward in lieu of any more words, his forehead bloodless and white where it presses against his cell, and Dean eagerly meets him halfway for the worst kiss of their lives. It’s terrible, truly. Their lips are barely able to brush without the rough bars digging painfully into Dean’s cheekbones on either side. The angle is more than awkward, Dean’s hand is getting jammed against unyielding metal, everything smells of iron and filth, and Sam lets out a breath of defeated laughter across his chin.

“Sorry,” he says ruefully.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean does his awkward best to tug him in closer, though it’s more scrabbling against wet fabric than anything else. “Sharing an illicit moment with the Duke of Ifreann behind his husband’s back? Best kiss of my life.”

Sam lets out a sigh. “I’m not though,” he says, a look of mild recrimination flashing across his features. “They stripped my titles from me. All of them. First thing they did when they tossed me in here. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m just Sam Campbell again.”

That’s one problem in this horrific slew of a mess that Dean _can_ fix though. “I’ll make you my consort the instant you’re free,” he promises, nothing but determined devotion in his voice. “You’ll be a king.”

His brother doesn’t smile like he expects, his face crumpling instead at the kind gesture. How long has it been since he’s felt any warmth at all? “Dean, you can’t. Lucifer knows. _People_ know.” Sam bites back a miserable sound. “Not to mention I’m already married,” he says acerbically.

Dean closes his eyes under the painful truth of the statement, hating their current situation with everything in him, even if it makes him the hypocrite Sam always accused him of being. “Not for long,” he says quietly. “Through death or divorce, you will be free of that villain. I give you my word.” Then he chuckles a little as he rethinks his vow. “Though if I were you,” he adds pointedly, “I’d plan on death.”

Sam gives him a flat look in response, but is interrupted by the creaking of the main door before he can open his mouth. Honestly, Dean’s just surprised that his guards gave them as much time as they actually got. Maybe they’re all due for a raise.

“Sire?” Benny ventures from behind him, his tone oddly meek.

Dean slips his hands from Sam’s shoulders before they can be caught, relegating them to innocently wrapping around the bars. “What is it?” he asks shortly.

Benny clears his throat. “We were able to capture the archduke, Sire. He arrived alone, just like the prisoner promised, and wasn’t prepared for our ambush.”

“Fantastic,” Dean says darkly. “Throw him in the kennels.”

“Majesty?” Benny attempts, unsure, and when Dean turns around, the man is frowning.

Dean stands to his full height, glaring the scant few inches down at his guard. “That was an _order_ , Lafitte. Do you need me to repeat myself?”

“No, Sire,” he replies quickly. “Of course not.”

“Good.” Dean says sharply. “The archduke is scum incarnate, not a man, and he can rot in the kennel cages with the other beasts of my kingdom.” He sweeps his gaze over the rest of the chamber before letting it settle on Azazel, still unconscious in the other cell. “And while you’re at it, transfer my advisor there as well,” he orders. They’ve already said too much in front of a man who could wake any moment. Skirted the edges of their admittedly rotten luck far too often tonight. Dean doesn’t want him even _looking_ at Sam. Either of them. “Post several guards,” he adds. “Sam informs me they’re both exceedingly dangerous.”

“As you wish, Sire,” Benny says, nodding obediently. “It’s just that—” He hesitates for a moment longer, as if he’s reluctant to leave the room. “That isn’t _all_ of it,” he eventually forces out.

Dean massages his fingers over his exhausted, stinging eyes. “What is it, then?”

Benny shuffles his feet uncomfortably. “Lucifer—the prisoner, that is—the _other_ prisoner…”

“ _What_ , Lafitte?”

“He made some, frankly, outlandish claims, Sire, before we were able to subdue him…” He glances to Sam, then quickly flicks his gaze back to Dean. “Still, they’re claims that cannot be ignored.”

Sam sucks in a sharp, terrified breath from behind him, but Dean doesn’t even blink at the news. He’d almost been expecting it, if anything. There’s only one thing his guard could possibly be talking about. Lucifer knows the truth about them. After all, Sam had just warned him of that very thing. Of course he would take any available opportunity to drag them both down with him. This is it, then. Every secret, every lie they’d ever told, everything they’ve been working toward, gone in an instant. Their entire future evaporating into the air like steam from a boiling pot.

Dean feels strangely relieved.

“I’ll address anything I need to in a moment,” he says quietly, and Benny, mollified for the time being, steps across the way to drag Azazel from his cell and out the door, leaving him and Sam in silence once again.

“I told them to gag him,” Sam blurts out frantically the moment they’re alone. “I told them to knock him unconscious the minute he arrived.” More of that awful, hateful guilt floods into his eyes and he clutches at the bars desperately. “This is all my fault,” he moans. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I never wanted this.”

“I do.”

“What?”

Dean sinks back down to his knees with an easy breath. “I’d rather have you safe, here with me, and everyone knowing the truth than I would have you spend one more _second_ with that monster. Even if it means my own skin on the line.”

Sam’s eyes go hard as flint. “Dean, no.”

“You suffered innumerable torments to protect me these last few months,” Dean reminds him with a weary look. “Will you not let me do the same for you?”

“They only need me, Dean,” Sam says stubbornly. “If the crowd wants Winchester blood for this, they can have mine.”

Dean is silent for a long while, weighing his words carefully. “I think the kingdom will be lucky enough to get two Winchesters for the price of one anyway.”

Sam’s hand scrabbles at the nightshirt loosely tucked into Dean’s trousers, his fingers barely brushing the material he can reach. “Don’t say that,” he begs, “ _please_.”

“Do you think we’ll be reunited in the afterlife?” Dean muses, ignoring him. “I can’t imagine we would be. Unless it’s one of us being forced to watch while the other is strapped to the Devil’s rack.” Sam looks like he’s about to be sick, but Dean can’t seem to stop the poison flooding past his lips. “Honestly, I think I’d prefer being tortured myself rather than having to watch you suffer.” He tilts his head with an affected sort of gallows humor. “Do you think the rack is a fitting enough punishment for incest and adultery? Oh, and _deception_ ,” he includes with a dark chuckle once he remembers the additional charge. “We hid our blood status from the rest of the kingdom so that we could continue our affair. Perhaps Hell will boil our lying tongues.”

“Love is not a sin,” Sam whispers, sad and soft.

Dean can’t help the derisive laugh at his brother’s words. “Of course love is a sin,” he spits back cruelly. “What else but love makes men do the most wretched of things?”

Sam remains silent for a long moment. “Greed,” he offers quietly, “…ambition, spite.” He swallows hard. “Vengeance.”

Dean isn’t sure whether Sam is talking about Lucifer or him on that last one. It’s either a regretful bit of knowledge of his husband’s motivations or a warning for Dean’s own future, and he isn’t inclined to find out which.

“Dean, please,” Sam continues breathlessly. “If you care for me at all, you’ll let me take the blame for this. I’ll claim you didn’t know. Winchester will stay safe under your rule.” Dean begins to shake his head in the negative, and Sam lets out a violent sound of frustration and slams his shoulder against the bars. “Don’t you dare!” he shouts, his first show of anger this entire time. “Only one of us has to die. If you allow yourself to be killed for no good reason, I’ll haunt you. I’ll haunt your _ghost_ ,” he says, as if it isn’t the weakest threat ever made by man. As if Dean wouldn’t welcome that outcome with open arms. “If it comes down to my sacrifice saving you, you have to let it happen. You have to, Dean. The kingdom needs you. Your subjects need you. _Promise me_. Promise me you won’t throw your life away so stupidly.”

Dean tilts Sam’s head down so that he can press a kiss to his sodden bangs. So that he can remember the feel of him one last time. So that he can lend him this small, fleeting bit of peace. So that Sam can’t see his eyes as he outright lies to his face. “I promise, Sam,” he says. He doesn’t mean a word of it.

Dean slips out of the dungeon with a renewed purpose, certain of what he has to do. He hasn’t felt this alive in months and he’s about to die for it. If he were in a better mood he’d laugh at the irony.

“Your Majesty!” Kevin blurts out loudly, accosting him from out of nowhere on the way to his chambers. “Your Majesty, it isn’t true, is it? It can’t be!”

Dean sighs at the knowledge of one more thing he has to deal with tonight. “You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Kevin,” he says coolly, trying to sidestep his steward, but Kevin quickly scuttles in front of him again.

“I was there, Your Majesty. I heard the archduke say it himself.” He lets out a desperate sound. “Hell, half the _castle_ is awake and has heard by now. People are clamoring for your head in the great hall.” Kevin opens his mouth to continue, then changes tracks, sucking in a shaky breath. “You and Sam,” he says, “he can’t truly be your brother?” His steward shakes his head in consternation, a determined frown marring his features. “You’re not a traitor, Sire. I _won’t_ believe it. And the things Sam said,” he adds in wild confusion, “that can’t be true either.”

Dean thins his lips, closing his eyes against the proof of his man’s loyalty. “I’ve been told,” he starts diplomatically, “that Lucifer said quite a few things that need clearing up.” He clenches his hands into subtle fists at his sides, using every trick in the book to remain calm and in control. “I don’t know what’s true and what isn’t at the moment, but _Sam_ had nothing to do with this.” He tilts his head down to fix Kevin with a basilisk stare. “He’s not to blame for any of it, no matter what anyone says, do you understand?”

Kevin nods hesitantly, but there’s conviction in it as well.

“Thank you,” Dean says honestly. “Now, I need you to contain the situation as best you can until I can make an official announcement tomorrow. Can you do that?” He claps a hand to his steward’s shoulder, squeezing affectionately. “Can you trust me in this?”

There’s no hesitation in his response this time. “I always do,” Kevin says firmly, and then he’s rushing away to handle everything like the competent professional he is. Dean would trade his kingdom for more men like him.

“Well, that went decently enough,” Bobby pipes up from behind him.

Dean tries not to jump at the surprise of it. “How long have you been there, old man?”

Bobby huffs out a weary laugh at the nickname. “You should be lucky to live so long,” he says, gritty with lack of sleep himself.

“I might not.” Dean heads for his chambers again, expecting Bobby to fall into step if he wants to continue the conversation. “I’m pardoning Sam,” he says frankly.

“Not a smart move.” Bobby tosses him a regretful glance. “You’d just make yourself look guilty as sin in turn.”

“ _Clemency_ , then!” Dean bites out, whirling on him. “I will not execute my brother!”

Bobby calmly raises his hands up to forestall any more outbursts. “You can’t,” he says bluntly. “Any other time, _maybe_. But after an accusation like this? You’ll end up with both of your fool heads on the chopping block.”

“Then so be it,” Dean says darkly, and he means every syllable. “I would rather die by his side tomorrow than live on for a hundred years alone.” They’ve reached his bedroom now, and Bobby lets out a frustrated sound at not getting his point across in time.

“Dean, there’s a better way to handle this. Let me address the court on your behalf.”

“Thank you, Bobby, but no,” Dean says dismissively. “I’ll talk to you at first light.” Then he closes the door between them before he can see the disappointment lining the older man’s face.

“Long night?” Lisa asks coolly from where she’s seated. She’s fully dressed now, perched immaculate and statue-like on the edge of their bed. The news must have reached here even before anywhere else in the castle.

Dean pushes down the flash of irritation at yet another obstacle and steps over to his desk. “Sam’s in the dungeon,” he explains hastily. “There’s been a mistake, _many_ mistakes, and I need to fix them before he pays the price.” He searches through the drawers, pulling out any official papers that might be of use. “Go back to bed. We can discuss this in the morning.”

“You love him, don’t you?”

Her words stop him cold, but Dean can’t let a statement like that go ignored. “Of course I love him,” he says, and there’s no point in playing dumb now. She clearly knows everything he’s been keeping from her. “We were raised together. He’s my _brother_ ,” Dean spits rather bitterly.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Lisa remains perfectly still, though her waters must be churning below the surface. “Are you lovers?” Dean refuses to respond to the blunt accusation, but he supposes that his lengthy, oppressive silence is incrimination enough. Lisa lets out a small sound, but it’s more of a suspicion being confirmed than a surprise. “You may think that because I was raised behind high walls, I know nothing of the world,” she says. “But I do, Dean. I have seen the exceeding cruelty of men. I’ve seen war and violence and hate, and I have seen love, even in the most unexpected of places. But this…” She jerks her head to the side on a sharp exhale. “Your _brother_ , Dean? And don’t you dare feed me a line about how blindly ignorant you were. The two of you were far too close. Even I could see that and I had just _met_ Sam. Although, I suppose I now understand your vehemence about his marriage. Your reluctance to send him away from your side—or from your _bedchamber_.” His wife glares at him with furious tears in her eyes, spitting venom, and she has every right. “Dean,” she whispers helplessly, “I know it’s only the Lord’s place to judge, but you must have known that this was something beyond even the _realm_ of human decency—”

“We never knew,” he interrupts sharply, finally pushed beyond the bounds of willful silence.

Lisa lets out an impatient breath at his words, cross at being cut off. “Pardon?”

“We never _knew_ ,” Dean repeats lowly. “Sam…he grew up at my side. I can barely even remember a time when he wasn’t there, matching my footsteps with every ounce of energy he had. _Little Sammy_ ,” he breathes out with a bittersweet smile, losing himself in the memories as he lifts a hand to mark the height of his shoulder. “Only came up to here until he was sixteen summers.” Dean lets out a poor excuse for a laugh. “I used to tease him for it something fierce. Never expected the scrawny devil to outshoot me.” He finally collapses into his desk chair, no more strength left to hold himself upright. “He was my constant companion for all those years. Learning to hunt and swim and ride as I did. And then in the years that followed, he let me instruct him in more…private matters,” he says delicately. “Hell, he even managed to teach me a few things himself. I doubt our tutors would have approved of _those_ lessons, had they known.” Dean can’t help the weak smile that comes to his face at the thought. “I watched him become a man, Lis,” he whispers. “I watched him grow into his grace and compassion, his quiet strength…” The words get caught in his throat, and when Dean finally manages to fish them out again, they’re too wet. “And I never loved anyone or anything more.” He rubs a rough hand over his burning eyes, attributing the catch in his voice to the lateness of the hour. “I proposed a few months before my twenty-sixth birthday. I promised to love him until my last breath, and then my father—” Dean scoffs as he stumbles over the words. “ _Our_ father…” He lets out a sigh, shaking his head against any forthcoming recriminations. “We never knew. We never even had an _inkling_.” Dean slumps against the back of his chair and lets the last wisp of bitter honesty leave his lungs. “And even if we had, I’m not entirely certain it would have changed anything.”

Lisa remains quiet and still for a very long moment, digesting everything he’s just confessed to. “And now you’re willing to give your very head for it?” she says cuttingly, not really a question.

“Yes,” he answers easily. Too easily, considering his entire kingdom is at stake. But it isn’t a lie. “I would rather die at dawn, a disgraced pauper for love, than to rule on as king without him.”

There’s another long moment of heavy silence, and Dean begins to worry that he’s just alienated one of the few souls still on his side. “Then I suppose,” Lisa says eventually, _stiffly_ , “we must find a way to free him from the executioner’s axe.” She rises gracefully to her feet and heads towards the door. “There are people I need to contact if we are to put a plan into motion before morning.”

“Wait, you would—” Dean’s mouth runs away with him before he can even finish the thought. “You would help spare my brother’s life?” he asks in shock. “Lisa, I’ve just admitted to marital infidelity. In intent, if not in action. And I promise you, if you find a way to save Sam, I will run to his side and never be parted from him again. You can’t possibly—”

“You think you are the only one who has ever known love?” Lisa cuts him off sharply, her gaze biting and icy. “Who has ever thought to sacrifice their own wants for another’s happiness?”

Dean isn’t quite sure what to say to that. To the rebuke or the unexpected windfall of his wife’s aid. “And who do you love, my Lady Braeden?”

Lisa pauses at the door, her hand resting motionless on the knob. “You’re a fool, Your Majesty,” she says quietly, “if you do not know the answer to that.”

 


	16. Fire

Sam can’t stop the thin smile stretching across his face as the first weak rays of morning come streaming in through the dungeon’s high, slit window. The light is still a muddled grey, but there’s a sprinkling mist in the air instead of the pounding rain from the night before. Sam closes his eyes and lets his head relax back against the stone wall, enjoying the damp breeze despite the chill it brings him.

He’d been alone all night. Left with no one but the rotating guard for company after Dean had made his exit. Left alone with just his thoughts to warm him from the inside-out, cozily glowing in his chest like the last embers of a winter’s fire. Because that had been a _damn_ terrible last kiss, but Sam thinks it might just have been his favorite of them all. His brother forgives him, _loves_ him, and he can go to his grave with an unburdened heart. To die in exchange for Dean’s life would be one of the easiest things he’s ever had to do.

Sam lets out a contented sigh, ignoring the way his shoulders twinge painfully at the motion. He hurts pretty much everywhere really, his muscles throb every time he moves, the knee he’d twisted in his fall keeps cramping up, even his _skin_ aches, but it won’t matter for much longer anyway. He lets out a soft chuckle at his own morbid sense of humor, then winces as it turns into a wet cough. _Of course_ —Sam thinks in the sarcastic privacy of his own mind. Everything else has already gone about as terribly as it possibly could, he might as well add ‘getting deathly ill’ to the list. Why not, right?

It’s slightly ridiculous that the silver lining in all of this is that he won’t have to suffer under his various ailments for too long. And at least he’ll get to see Dean one last time. The king must be present for all official executions within the castle borders. Sam smiles again. Maybe they’ll even get to exchange a few words before his end.

The creaking of the door interrupts his thoughts as Dean himself comes sweeping in, like Sam had summoned him with just a thought. “Morning, Sammy,” his brother calls out brightly as he strides across the chamber. “Any plans for tomorrow? I’ve heard you’ll be a free man by then.”

Dean’s tone is cheery enough—forcibly so, even—but there are dark bruises under his eyes and he’s still wearing his same trousers from the night before, an unfastened doublet thrown on top making his ensemble just presentable enough to prevent judgment.

“You haven’t slept.”

Dean lets out an over-exaggerated scoff. “Well I couldn’t, could I?” he says, prodding. “Not when you needed me to pull your ass out of the frying pan.”

Sam curtails his look of pained amusement and diplomatically refrains from pointing out whose ass needed rescuing from frying in the first place. Or that how it’s kind of what got them into this whole mess.

“Anyway,” his brother continues, crossing his arms and leaning a casual shoulder against the bars, playing up the calm nonchalance as if he doesn’t look one stiff breeze away from collapsing, “Lisa was up all night figuring it out. She’s got everything worked out on how to help you, Sammy. We both do.”

“The _queen_ is coming to my aid?” Sam asks pointedly, raising an eyebrow at the announcement. “Doesn’t she know I tried to murder her husband?”

Dean lets a tired smile wash over his face, the first chink of weakness in his façade. “Maintain the sarcasm,” he says wearily, “and I’ll keep you in there an extra day.”

“Will you now?” Sam asks, trying not to let too much bitterness seep into his tone. “You’re going to toss a corpse back into the dungeon after my execution? I think my disembodied head might fright the guards.”

Dean twists his neck back to take in one of those same guards for a brief moment, looking for just a second like he wants to dismiss the man on duty no matter how guilty it will make him look. So that they can speak candidly. Sam aches for it, too. For just a glimpse of his brother’s real soul, instead of having to parse the frivolous words out from what Dean really wants to convey to him.

“Thankfully for you,” Dean says, raising his voice solely for the benefit of the man behind him, “my wife is quite adept at spotting evil spirits. Due to the purity of her soul, of course.”

“…Of course,” Sam echoes uncertainly.

“And as such,” his brother continues, trying to communicate subtextual volumes through the twitching of his eyebrows, “she was able to detect the demonic presence right away. When it crossed our threshold last night.”

Sam frowns a little, unsure of where Dean is going with this, but reluctant to turn down his only possible lifeline so foolishly. “Is that so?” he asks carefully.

Dean grins, a real one this time, though it only enhances the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “Now, having met you earlier this year and detecting no such presence surrounding you then, Lisa was quite convinced that any murderous scheming on your part must have been the result of a wicked bewitchment.”

Sam’s mouth drops open once the realization hits him. That _this_ is his brother’s ridiculous plan. “Dean, no,” he says reasonably. “Be practical. This is not the way to—”

“ _Of course_ ,” Dean cuts him off loudly, almost shouting to cover up Sam’s words of contradiction, “the only way she’ll be able to know for sure is by visiting you herself.” He turns around to focus his attention on the guard. “Would you please escort the queen inside, sir? Surely no harm can come to her with you on watch, and she’s the only one pure of heart enough to confirm our suspicions.”

The guard quickly snaps a hand to his breast in salute, obviously delighted at being singled out for praise by the king himself, and hustles out the door to follow the command.

“Dean, what in God’s name are you doing?” Sam hisses the moment it’s safe for him to do so. “This is ludicrous.”

Dean just snaps his wrist out in a silencing motion. “Sam,” he whispers tensely, “ _please_ just trust me and shut the hell up.”

The guard returns almost immediately, Lisa must have been waiting just outside, and he goes back to standing at attention with renewed vigor, his chest puffed out with pride.

“Ah, my queen,” Dean crows, laying it on so thick that Sam can see Lisa’s wince even from his cell, “if you would be so kind?”

Lisa steps across the room delicately, slowly, as she makes her way over to Sam. He holds his breath, and his tongue, as she wraps a careful hand around the iron bars and Sam can’t help but think he’d feel sheepish under her stare even if he wasn’t currently in a cage. He’s done nothing but lie to this woman’s face, whisper behind her back, and try to steal her husband away. There’s no reason for Winchester’s queen to feel anything for him other than complete and utter loathing, yet here she is, putting her own values on the line to save his life.

There’s a look of—not quite _dislike_ —in Lisa’s eyes, but resignation as she sweeps her gaze over Sam, holding her position just long enough to feasibly have sensed whatever magical aura they’re pretending is here. “I was correct,” she announces after a moment. Her voice is clear and strong, but stiff with whatever reserved feelings she’s holding back, though it’s still enough to make the guard behind them glance over warily, his perfect form slipping as he leans in to eat up the drama playing out before him. “There is dark sorcery at work here,” Lisa says. “This man’s mind is not his own.” She turns her attention back down to him, eyes cold behind her play-acting. “Tell me, Sam. What demonic magic is this? Who cast this compulsive shroud over your soul?”

Sam nervously flicks his gaze between Lisa and his brother, unsure of what exactly it is they want him to say. He’s only got one chance at this, and no one had felt it important enough to actually let him in on this little plan of theirs.

“Perhaps,” Dean chimes in, doing his best to guide Sam where they need him to be, “someone you’ve felt compelled to spend a great deal of time with recently? Someone who could have used your position here to make an attempt for the throne?”

 _Oh_ —Sam thinks. _It’s as simple as that_. “Lucifer,” he says quietly, the name coming out thin and reedy through his parched lips. Then he clears his throat and raises his voice, making sure his words can be heard. “The Archduke Lucifer.”

They both pull back at the news, Dean over-acting and Lisa barely reacting at all as they find some sort of happy medium in front of their audience.

“That would explain the evil presence you sensed,” Dean says to his wife. “Lucifer crossed our borders late last night.” He tilts a hand out, gesturing to Sam. “He must have bespelled Sam to do his evil bidding so that his own hands would be clean.”

Lisa gives Sam one more lingering glance, and the hurt in her eyes freezes him solid before she finally drags her attention away. “Yes,” she replies coolly. “I can sense the wickedness in him even now.” That one wasn’t all acting, and Sam meekly accepts the insult as his due. It’s the least he can do to make up for everything he’s taking from her. Lisa turns to the guard, who instantly jolts back into position at being caught out. “I think it might be wise to explain the situation to the other men on Lucifer’s watch,” she says. “They should be made aware of the danger. That their charge is no mere mortal, but a demon who’s taken human form.”

The man snaps off another quick salute and races for the door, clearly convinced by their performances. All three of them have played their parts well enough, and Sam knows that a story of such dramatic intrigue will likely be taken as gospel as long as it’s coming from the tongue of a fellow guard. The news will spread faster than the wind can carry it, and an eyewitness account of the proceedings will only add to the validity.

“And Azazel?” Sam asks tentatively when they’re alone once more, almost loathe to press his luck.

Dean allows a smirk to grace his lips. “Clearly, he was under Lucifer’s demonic influence as well. Only, we weren’t able to save his soul the way we’re going to save yours.”

Sam huffs out a small breath. “How exactly are you going to do that?” he asks in mild amusement. “Get a priest to anoint me with holy water? Have me up in front of a crowd, speaking in tongues?”

His brother passes his wife fond look, tired though it may be. “Lisa’s the one who thought it all through,” he says softly. “All you have to do is stand up on that gallows stage and follow my lead.”

Sam raises his eyes to Lisa, fighting back the guilt as he finally faces her with the respect she’s owed. “Thank you, Milady,” he says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything more.

But Lisa just shakes her head in quiet dismissal. Sam understands, or at least he thinks he does. If their places were reversed he might not want to hear it either.

She takes a deep breath, then calmly proceeds to lay out all the pertinent information Sam needs to know, mostly avoiding eye contact with him as she explains the rest of the plan in flat, hushed tones.

They keep Sam’s wrists chained as they drag him out to the courtyard behind them, flanked by guards on either side. Dean only manages a quick, “Remember, Sam, you’re under a spell,” under his breath before any more communication would be too suspicious, but Sam takes the advice to heart. He’s not the most talented actor at the best of times, but he does try to look as dazed as possible. There’s no reason to borrow trouble when they have more than enough already.

A rough scaffolding has already been erected along one side of the cobblestoned square, but there’s no gallows or guillotine atop it. It’s simply a raised wooden platform, built high enough so that anyone standing there can be seen from the center of the courtyard. Though the wall directly to the left of it draws the eye much more effectively than even the stage does, taken up as it is by a truly massive pyre. Two sturdy wooden stakes jut out tall and thick from the center of the straw-lined heap, outlined starkly against the pale grey sky. Burning at the stake is the only form of execution specifically reserved for witchcraft and Sam begins to fear that he’s going to be lashed to one of the poles, but Dean gestures for him to be brought up onto the stage instead, Lisa following after to stand on the opposite side, and Sam lets out a sigh of relief he hopes no one catches.

One of the guards, Hanscum, steps away from his side to approach his brother, a bizarrely inappropriate bounce to her step even at this early hour. Sam’s always thought that she seemed a little too cheery for this line of work, but if Dean’s chosen her for this particular task, it must mean that she’s one of his most trusted. “Shall I open the gates, Your Majesty?” she asks, fist to her breastplate. “Folks have been lining up since dawn.”

“Of course not,” Dean scoffs over his shoulder, meticulously adjusting the two lit torches at either end of the scaffolding until they give off whatever mood he’s trying to set. “We can’t start without my court.”

Hanscum falters a bit. “The court, Sire?”

“All of them,” Dean says coldly. “Every damn member.” He strides back to center stage, no hint of softness in his eyes. “They want to spread rumors of treason? They’re going to see the results of it firsthand.”

“And the—” she tosses a quick glance to Sam, “the other prisoners?”

“Not yet. Wait for my signal.”

Hanscum salutes again and hurries off to obey Dean’s order. She’ll probably have to rouse most of them from bed if Dean is truly insistent on every one being present, and Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek at the epicaricacy of the image.

Surprisingly, it only takes a quarter of an hour for the half-dressed courtiers to start trickling into the courtyard. Most look rumpled and furious at being dragged out here, and given the scattered shivering Sam can make out, none of them seem prepared for the morning’s chill. It isn’t raining yet, not like it has been for every day of the last four months of Sam’s life, but heavy pockets of moisture seem to simply hang in the air, dampening anyone unfortunate enough to happen to step through one.

Hanscum lets in the rest of the lot once the court is all accounted for, the villagers gaping as they file in to mix with the likes of such finery. Practically unheard of for something as base as a public killing. The curious murmuring is all quickly smothered into silence though once the king steps to the edge of the stage.

“You’re all here for an execution,” Dean addresses the assorted crowd, his voice booming across the square, “but before that happens, there are quite a few falsehoods I need to straighten out first.” He narrows his gaze at a few specific members of the court, and Sam can see more than one head duck in discomfort. “I’m sure you all have heard the rumors by now. I’m here today to tell you that some of them are true.” Dean takes a long, deliberate pause, playing up the dramatic anticipation until you could hear a pin drop. “We have a demon in our midst!” he announces menacingly, and the crowd erupts into a clamor of terrified confusion. He barely waits for them to settle before he’s speaking again. “The Archduke Lucifer marched onto Winchester land, unannounced, late last night, already having sent vessels of his demonic magic ahead of him to carry out his dark deeds. Vessels that were only discovered due to the bravery and piety of your queen.” And the very fact that Lisa is present for something as abhorrent as an execution, standing proud and faithful at Dean’s side, lends a solemn credence to their story in the eyes of the peasantry. Sam can even see a few women bring their hands to their mouths in shock. “The castle guards were able to subdue him, but not before he revealed a few truths about my family line. Truths neither I nor those mentioned had been aware of until last night, but truths nonetheless.”

Dean tosses a quick glance back to Lisa behind him and she nods subtly, nudging him on. “I’ve learned that Winchester’s late queen was _not_ my mother,” he states clearly, and is met with an array of surprised gasps from the throng before him. “I was borne of my father, the king, and a peasant girl who worked in the castle at the time.” Dean takes a deep breath to shore himself up. “I’m commonborn,” he says with only the slightest hesitation, “…and I was not my parents’ only child.” Scattered conversation whips through the gathered mob in response, but Dean draws their focus back just as quickly. “And I have proof,” he says. “A man who was present at both my and younger brother’s births.” He gestures a hand down to the courtyard. “My father’s closest confidant, Bobby Singer.”

Bobby emerges from the crowd, spectators parting before him like the Red Sea, as he slowly climbs the stairs onto the stage. He steps up to the edge to speak, then seems to remember himself, slipping his cap off to awkwardly wring it in his hands. “It’s true,” he says gruffly, fidgeting uncomfortably under the sudden attention. “His Majesty was not his father’s only son.” He twitches a few fingers back in his direction and Sam’s guards march him forward with a hand on either arm. “Sam Campbell is of Winchester blood, same as his elder brother,” Bobby says, his sentences short and to the point. “Halfblood, both of them, but still…the rightful heirs to John’s throne.” Another murmur runs through the crowd, but there’s no ripple of anger in it like Sam would have guessed. “I was there for both births,” Bobby continues, “but the late king ordered me to keep his secret, even past the grave.” He suddenly jams his cap back onto his head, stubborn as a mule. “I remained loyal to my king and country by doing so. Every damn day.”

Dean steps forward once more, hastily snatching the attention back from Bobby before anyone can turn on him. “And how could anyone blame a man for faithfully obeying his king?” his brother asks, plainly leading the crowd to the desired verdict. “If there’s any treason to be found here, then it lies at my father’s feet.” He hesitates for a moment as the words seem to get stuck in his throat and Sam thinks he’s the only one who will ever truly understand the sacrifice his brother is making here. There was no one, save perhaps God himself, who loved their father more than Dean. John will go down in history as a villain, scandal tainting his name, all because of Dean’s actions in this moment. But he’s doing it to save Sam’s life—to save _both_ their lives—and to protect the kingdom, and Sam knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that their father would never blame him for it.

“So I ask you,” Dean says, “how can you possibly place fault when no crime is currently being committed?” Lisa steps up beside him then, taking his hand in hers and presenting a united front before their subjects. “My wife,” Dean continues, “your queen, is of pure royal blood. I am breaking no laws of the land by inheriting my father’s throne as a married man. But if there are any who would still challenge my rule, now is your time to speak.” Sam can see one or two members of the court open their mouths, but no words are actually uttered. Dean’s correct. Lisa is his saving grace in this. No one can possibly raise an objection without a valid reason, and there isn’t one. Not if Dean had been unaware of his lineage the way he’s claiming.

The silence stretches long enough for Dean to come to the favorable conclusion, and he dips his head in gratitude. “But the more important question,” he states darkly, low anger simmering in his eyes now that the politics are out of the way, “is how Lucifer obtained that secret knowledge in the first place. When even _I_ was unaware of it.” He turns to his guards, giving them both a subtle nod, and Hanscum swings open the large gates blocking the square off from the dungeon.

The crowd quails a little, a few voices rising in dismay as they recall the earlier mentioned demon. The communal anxiety swells into audible horror just as Lucifer and Azazel are dragged out into the square proper, multiple armed men on each arm. Lucifer is screaming, _shouting_ muffled profanities through his gag, murder blazing in his eyes as his boots scrape over the cobblestones. Azazel just remains deathly, terrifyingly still behind him.

Sam looks away almost immediately, dropping his eyes to his feet rather than risk Lucifer meeting his gaze even for one second. He doesn’t care if it makes him a coward. He doesn’t think he could stand it.

“How could Lucifer have come upon this information other than black magic?” his brother shouts to the people before him, sweeping a hand out as the two prisoners are tied firmly to the stakes in the center of the pyre. “He cast his…evil spell over Azazel,” Dean says haltingly, clearly trying not to roll his eyes at the ridiculous nature of his own words, but the masses gathered before him seem to receive the speech with nothing more than solemn and terrified sincerity. “Then he sent him to spy on my family,” Dean accuses sharply, “where he remained for years, carrying out Lucifer’s machinations. Reporting back to him. _Murdering_ members of the Winchester line. Spinning webs of lies and putting schemes in motion until Lucifer could pull the trigger on my death, in an attempt to take the throne for himself.”

Dean pauses for a moment, gauging the captivation of his audience. “And as Azazel had lived and worked so closely with the other members of my court over the last several years,” he says, “I am completely convinced that the only way he could have possibly gleaned this knowledge was through scrying.” His brother lets the briefest flicker of a smile cross his face before he buries it under a sober mask again. “Because suggesting that an ordinary man could have perpetuated this network of deceit for so long without a single member of the court noticing something amiss is preposterous. The very _implication_ ,” Dean continues harshly, “that one of my courtiers could have noticed something suspicious, but chose not to bring it to my—or my father’s—attention would be the highest accusation of treason. Which I won’t stand for. To insinuate that any or all members of the court are guilty of turning a blind eye to my enemies’ plots, and as such, should be burned at this same stake is a _poisonous_ bit of slander. Don’t you agree?” He’s playing the crowd like a cheap fiddle, the notes all slightly off-key and the rhythm clumsy, but no one dares to challenge the twisted, double-edged melody Dean’s just woven. Any refutation of the king’s word would now set them up for the chopping block themselves.

The assembled members of the court all eye each other uneasily, too concerned over their own wellbeing to confirm or deny any of the accusations until one woman finally steps forward. Missouri Moseley. She’d been a member of the court since John had first taken the throne and her unerring ability to see right through to the truth of things had always intrigued Sam just as much as it had confounded him.

“I think it’s clear to all of us,” Missouri begins firmly, her gentle voice carrying clear across the courtyard, “that Azazel must have been using magical methods. _Sinister_ ones,” she adds with a tinge of dramatics. Though the look in her eye isn’t one of blind religious terror. Nor is it a desperate desire to save her own skin. If anything, she looks subtly amused. “I can confidently speak for the rest of the court when I say that these claims of demons and sorcery must be true. As any other explanations would simply be _unthinkable_.” Missouri finishes her speech and takes a step back, and Sam could swear that she tosses a quick wink in his direction, though the distance and fog between them make it impossible to tell for sure.

His brother grins broadly, emboldened by Missouri’s support, and the sharp glint of his teeth makes him look wild and savage. Sam’s vicious savior. His ferocious protector. “But Azazel,” he says pointedly, “was not Lucifer’s only victim.” Dean gestures for him to be brought forward again, but no guards remain at his sides this time. “Lucifer also cast a vile enchantment on Sam,” he announces, “my own _brother_ , bewitching him into marriage so that he could use him as a pawn against me. Against Winchester’s _crown_. To send him, in the dead of night, to enact his murderous plot.” The crowd suddenly erupts into a rage, stirred up into a furor as they are, a violent clamor rising for him to be burned as well, along with his demon master. Sam’s heart gets caught in his throat at the bloodthirsty cry, rightfully terrified that they’ve made a mistake. That their plan is about to come crashing down around their shoulders, pulling the both of them to Hell. “But do you know what happened?” Dean roars over the crowd. “Do you know what came to pass when Sam arrived at the castle last night, magically tasked to drive a blade through my heart?” The bloodlust doesn’t abate, righteous anger roiling through the courtyard like a nest of hornets. “He _confessed_ ,” Dean states, needle sharp, and every single shout slowly dwindles away into awe.

“Azazel has already succumbed to Lucifer’s evil,” Dean proclaims. “He has committed regicide by murdering my father and his wife, and has planned attempts on both my life and the current queen’s as well. It’s too late for him. There’s no forgiveness to be had here for such tainted and twisted crimes, except perhaps in the afterlife.” He turns his back on the pyre, sweeping his arm out over the courtyard. “But you all know, Ser Samuel—” Dean winces a little as he slips into old habits. “ _Sam_ ,” he corrects himself. “You know him as Sam Campbell, and he’s lived among us for his entire life, over two decades. If you’ve ever even spoken to him, then you know his good heart and his valiant soul. A man as righteous as that couldn’t possibly stomach the evil of such a task placed before him, no matter how much dark magic was cast over his mind. He was able to resist a demon’s bewitchment, just to confess to a crime he hadn’t even committed yet. _That_ is the purity of a virtuous soul.” He pauses for a moment to let his words sink in. “And by burning this demon’s earthly form, Lucifer will have no hold over him any longer!”

The crowd roars again, in support this time, and there’s a look of triumph in his brother’s eyes as he unlocks Sam’s chains, the iron slipping over his wrists and crashing to their feet in heaps of metallic coils.

Dean yanks a burning torch out of its nearby holder, holding the beacon up between them until Sam can just make out his eyes over the flickering flames. “Prove to me,” he says loudly, “and to all of Winchester that you’re on the side of Christ.”

For a wild, reckless moment, stirred up by the frantic hysteria below him, Sam almost wants to drag Dean up into a kiss. That dark little voice at the back of his head urging him to take this opportunity he’ll never have again. Because he could blame it on his enchantment. He could blame it on Lucifer’s demonic presence egging him on to commit sinful acts. He could know—just for one, shining moment—what it feels like to hold his brother in his arms with someone, _anyone_ , as a witness to it. But instead, he simply accepts the torch from Dean’s hands with a determined nod, letting their fingers brush for a mere moment before a hundred pairs of eyes.

Sam descends the scaffolding steps, grip unrelenting around the redeeming fire in his hand. The crowd scatters before his every footstep, most clearly still terrified of his possible enchantment, but Sam has no eyes for any of them.

Lucifer is still shouting and struggling fiercely as Sam approaches the pyre, his gag forced so far between his teeth that Sam can make out the angry red chafing at either corner of his mouth. He doesn’t feel even a hint of sympathy. His husband bucks wildly as he catches sight of him, yanking against his restraints as he lets out a primal scream. As he glares daggers with his eyes, murderous intent focused so violently on Sam that he’s surprised his heart hasn’t simply stopped in his breast.

He wishes he could say that he feels strong in this moment. That facing the man who’d hurt him in such a way, who’d hurt his family, threatened his brother’s life, ordered the _murder_ of his father, brings him even an ounce of closure. That standing free and unfettered while Lucifer is bound to the stake of his own execution makes Sam feel powerful. But it doesn’t. He just feels tired.

He just feels terrified.

Sam meets Lucifer’s frenzied gaze, lowering his voice so that no one can hear a word but the two men on the pyre. “You once told me that I was a talented liar,” he says quietly, trying with everything in him to keep his tone from wavering. “And that I was a selfless prince.” Sam jerks his head to the side with a sharp huff, letting out the bitterest sound he’s ever made. “I think you were right, _my husband_ ,” he confesses darkly. “I would do anything for my people. And for my king.” There’s a brief, lightning-hot moment of pure spite where Sam yearns to rub it in further. To reveal the truth of his relationship with Dean, just to twist the knife. Just to see the indignity burning in this monster’s eyes before he dies. But it’s a foolhardy notion at best. Lucifer wouldn’t waste a second before shouting the information to the gathered crowd through his gag. To do his best to drag them down with him. It isn’t a risk that Sam is willing to take, even for the glory he’d feel at the pure vengeance of it all. Not for Dean’s sake.

There’s a simple way to leach copper ore by leaving it in open air, Lisa had explained back in the dungeon. Braeden had often used similarly harmless, treated metals in their celebrations for adding vibrant color to fire. Along with a handful of assorted mineral salts from one of the castle’s unsuspecting alchemists, the well-hidden pockets of ore put the final touch on their manipulation. The fire lights easily once Sam flings his torch into the straw, soaked in kerosene as everything is, but the actual show is only just getting underway. The flames creep eagerly nearer to the wooden stakes at the center of the pyre, then suddenly spring up a demonic green once they reach the two bound men. The gathered crowd lets out a unanimous, horrified screech at the spectacle as Sam steps back to take in the sight from the safety of the stage. There will be no doubt in anyone’s mind of Lucifer and Azazel’s guilt, thanks to Lisa’s clever ruse. Hellfire and dark magic are unfurling before their very eyes.

Sam sweeps his gaze over the masses just to be sure their deception has taken root, his eyes catching on a priest standing some ways back, frantically blessing himself with the sign of the cross as he stares, open-mouthed, at the horrifying display. They’ve not only fooled the kingdom, they’ve tricked a man of the cloth and Sam can already feel the guilt churning in his belly at the knowledge of such a wicked act. But then his gaze drifts to Dean, alive and whole as he stands strong beside him, and Sam can’t find it within himself to regret their actions. Not even for a moment.

His brother’s falcon-like attention never wavers from the fire, hateful fury blazing from his eyes, burning hotter than even the roasting pyre before them could hope to emulate. He stands tall and straight-backed as the flames slowly edge closer and closer in. Grim and terrible—and every inch a king.

Sam turns away at the first scream.

Dean watches, resolute and uncompromising, until the very last ember has finally snuffed itself out. He doesn’t flinch once.

 


	17. Prince

The celebrating begins even before the last few flames have died down. Exuberant cries of, “All hail Queen Lisa the Virtuous!” and, “God save the Prince of Winchester!” ring throughout the courtyard so loudly they drown out the faint sound of still-crackling bones. Dean lets out a heavy sigh, unheard over the crowd, and the lingering fear escapes on his breath. They’ve done it. They’ve actually pulled it off, impossible though it seemed, and Sam is safe once again. Safe and here with him. Safe and at _home_.

The boisterous villagers eventually calm, turning almost as one to blink up at the stage, and Sam belatedly seems to realize that he’s in the presence of a queen. He quickly drops to his knees, stumbling over the expected words of gratitude. “Thank you for rescuing me from the spell of my villainous captors, Majesty,” his brother proclaims loudly. “… _And_ for saving my immortal soul,” he remembers to toss in at the last moment. “If there’s anything I can do in exchange for your kindness, you only need to ask.”

Dean swoops in before Lisa can say a word, terrified by what she might request of Sam in front of this many witnesses. “The only thing we ask in return,” he says quickly, “is that you remain here, loyal to your country of birth.” As the landed ruler, Dean’s authority outstrips his queen’s, and since he was the first to speak, she officially can’t go back on his word. It’s a selfish fucking move, underhanded even, but he would do absolutely anything to make sure that Sam remains under his protection for as long as he’s alive to provide it. No matter the cost. “Winchester could use all the royal blood it can get in order to protect the kingdom from potential usurpers,” he continues, tilting his head to indicate the still smoldering remains of the pyre. “Let’s not water the line down any further by auctioning off our brand new—and only—prince.”

Lisa slips her hand around his elbow, a mask of pure serenity falling into place over her face. “You are welcome here for as long as you wish, our brother,” she says magnanimously. Her tone is still a little tense, but Dean appreciates the gesture. It will go a long way towards Sam being accepted in their subjects’ eyes.

His brother staggers back up to his feet at Lisa’s nod, wincing a little as he puts pressure on his right knee, and Dean logs that image away with a silent frown. “Thank you, Milady,” Sam says sincerely, and there’s more in it than just gratitude for their current situation at hand.

Dean is aware he should probably keep a professional distance for their audience’s sake, but he simply can’t hold back any longer, breaking away from Lisa to yank his brother into his arms the way he’d ached to the night before. The way he’d ached to every single night they’d been parted. And Sam returns the gesture just as immediately, just as fiercely, pressing his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and clutching at his back like he’s terrified of being dragged away again. His brother is finally a free man, and Dean only barely refrains from weeping at the feel of him in his arms. Thinner than he should be, angular and drawn, but still Sam. Still so perfectly, intrinsically _Sam_.

They only hold the embrace for a few moments. One of their ‘public displays’. It’s barely a shadow of the affection they’re able to exchange in the privacy of their shared quarters, but necessary nonetheless if they want to remain breathing. Dean even makes sure to casually clap Sam on the back as they part. Their true reunion will have to wait until they’re behind closed doors.

Bobby edges past him before Dean can even fully draw away, pulling Sam into a shorter hug of his own. “ _Balls_ , kid,” he whispers roughly. “You do that to me again and I’m disowning you.”

Sam lets out a choked sigh—clearly a happy sound, even tinged as it is with tears—and rests his cheek against the side of Bobby’s head. “I’m never even planning on _traveling_ ever again,” he jokes weakly.

Dean is thoroughly moved at the sight of the reunion, though greed for his brother’s attention leads him to pull Sam back to him, yanking their joined hands up above his head with a final, “The Prince of Winchester!” One more cheer of jubilance crests in response, ringing clear throughout the square as Dean exits the stage, tugging his brother along behind him and allowing his guards to handle the grislier business of disposing of the bodies.

He doesn’t want to think on either of the scoundrels for one more waste of a moment. With any luck, they’ll just be tossed outside the gates for the buzzards to feast on.

No one speaks until they’re all well within the castle’s walls again, out of sheer exhaustion or perhaps everyone is just at a loss for what to say after living through an ordeal of that harrowing magnitude. The four of them are all bound together by their dark secret now, that’s for certain, and Dean can see the determination in Bobby and Lisa’s eyes to never speak of this again.

“Well,” Dean attempts to break the ice clumsily, once they come across the hallway to the sleeping quarters, “I, for one, haven’t slept in an entire day’s time. I think I’m about to fall into unconsciousness right here on my feet.”

Sam tries to hide a small smile at his exaggerations, but Lisa simply stares blankly forward. “Perhaps everyone should get some sleep then,” she says coolly, but cordial enough. “I think I may try to calm my nerves in the gardens, myself.”

The intent is clear. Lisa isn’t sure if Dean is planning on returning to Sam’s chambers or the ones he shares with her, trying to graciously avoid the awkwardness altogether, and Dean feels his heart swell at the unexpected generosity. He nods his head in response, then gestures for the other two men to retire to their own rooms. “I think that’s a perfect idea,” he says kindly. “Though, would you permit me to delay you for a moment, Milady?” Lisa nods uncertainly and Dean throws Sam a quick, reassuring smile at his brother’s accompanying look of curiosity.

Bobby makes his leave with a tired wave, Sam tosses him one last glance before slipping down the hallway to his old rooms, and then Dean and Lisa are alone once more.

“Thank you,” he breathes almost instantly, the words falling from his tongue as he steps forward to press fervent kisses of gratitude to his wife’s cheeks. The closed lids of her eyes. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

“Dean, please,” Lisa says sadly, shifting away from his touch.

He lets her go, but refuses to break their gaze, intent on making his appreciation clear. “Anything you ask,” he says earnestly, “that is within my power to obtain, it’s _yours_. I swear it.”

She tightens her lips at the offer, as if she’s offended by it, and Dean almost thinks she’s about to admonish him when she finally speaks. “There is nothing I want,” Lisa says carefully, “that you would give me, my husband.” Dean’s breath halts at her answer, their eyes locking over the regretful truth of that statement.

“Braeden then,” he says. “A gift for your family. Soldiers to protect your walls—or fine cloths for your sister.”

Lisa makes as if to refuse him once again, but holds herself in restraint as she thinks, eventually capitulating with a gentle sigh. “My father would appreciate the soldiers.”

Dean grins broadly as the weight of his debt is somewhat lifted—though, truly, he’ll be repaying her the rest of his life. “Consider it done,” he says firmly. He turns to follow Sam—two minutes out of his brother’s sight and it’s already too much for him to bear—but pauses at the last moment, twisting back to face his wife with eternal admiration. “You should know that there aren’t many who would have acted as selflessly in your place,” he says honestly. “You’re a rare breed, Majesty.” Dean lets out a small huff of laughter as he recalls the crowd’s rallying cry. “Queen Lisa the Virtuous,” he recites affectionately. “It suits you.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

He grants her a sincere smile, more bittersweet than anything, but his heart is in it. “I meant what I said, the day of our wedding,” he reminds her gently. “There are none better I could find to rule at my side. Winchester should count itself lucky to have you.”

Lisa smiles back then, just for a moment, and then silently turns to make her way to the gardens.

Dean watches her go, then practically races down the hallway to his chambers. His doors are unlocked and open easily enough, and Dean lets out an unconscious sigh of relief once the hidden paneling between their walls does as well.

Sam is standing right at the edge of his own bed, still clothed in his mud-caked livery, with his fingers hovering over the duvet as if he can’t believe Dean had kept everything so pristine. Kept his rooms exactly the way they were from the moment he’d left. Dean had done so more out of heartache than tender care, but the end result is the same, and he doesn’t waste another moment second-guessing himself. He’s halfway to the bed before his brother even notices he’s present, taking long strides across the room to yank Sam down to his mouth, gladly taking what belongs to him without any pretense or grace. His brother sinks into his touch just as eagerly, hands slipping over the sides of his face to hold him even closer.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” Sam confesses during one of their breaks for breath, their lips sticking tacky wherever they can’t bear to pull far enough away. “I wasn’t sure what to do here by myself.” He glances down sheepishly as a blush stains his cheeks—unless the pale ruddiness is simply a portent of ill health from his evening in the dungeon—and whispers quietly into the still of the room. “I don’t think I’d be able to sleep without you.”

Dean’s heart aches at the embarrassed gesture, as if Sam is afraid of his response. _He’d_ done this to his brother, made him doubt their bond due to his own hurt and anger and jealousy. Sam’s heart, his soul, was Dean’s to protect and he’d failed. Like a fairy orb shimmering in his hand that he’d dropped into the dust. No, he hadn’t dropped it. He’d flung it, smashed it against unforgiving stone to watch it shatter. If he were a better man, he’d set Sam free to find someone worthier of his affections, but though it may make Dean the most selfish soul in existence, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let go. He may have failed his brother once, but he will not do so again. Not as long as he lives.

Dean draws Sam down into his arms, careful and comforting. “You’ll be lucky,” he says, punctuated with small, tender kisses to his brother’s jawline and mouth, “if I get so much as three feet away from you for the entirety of the next year.” Sam laughs at the threat, turning into Dean’s ministrations with an enthusiasm to match his own. He stinks, and his skin is freezing, and he’s absolutely filthy, but Dean has never been more content, completely surrounded by the one person he’d never thought he’d have again.

“I’ll welcome it gladly,” Sam says, and Dean lets the sound of his brother’s voice wash over him, soft and breathy and deep. His sweet boy soothing every one of his lingering doubts with just his precious, clever words. Dean lets out a quiet snort as he amends the thought. His stubborn, self-righteous, hero of a _man_ filling up all the aching spaces inside of Dean’s soul with just the quiet strength of his presence.

Suddenly, he can’t keep himself from grinning, ear to ear. “So can I ask you what your next plans are?” Dean teases softly. “Your _Royal Highness?”_

Sam lets out an unexpectedly sour sound at the title, “You know, I was no one at all until I found out I was a bastard,” he says, almost conversationally. “And then I was a knight. Then a _duke_.” Sam spits the word out harshly, like it’s the bitterest poison. “And now a prince?” He shakes his head, dropping it to rest against Dean’s temple. “I think by this time tomorrow I might be emperor.”

He presses another kiss to his brother’s chin. “I think you’d make a fantastic emperor,” he mumbles against the stubbled skin.

Sam shoots out a derisive laugh. “I think I’m barely above a common murderer.” Dean has to pull back to fix him with a confused look, and Sam sighs guiltily. “We just condemned two men to their death,” he reminds him. “If not unjustly, then at least falsely.”

Dean shrugs. Considering the caliber of those men, he’d barely even consider it a crime. “I’ll ask for forgiveness at my next confession.”

“You have to mean it for it to count, Dean, ” Sam says indulgently.

“Then I suppose I’ll be taking that particular sin to my grave. It can be kept company by my many others.” Dean brushes some of the dried mud off of Sam’s chest, then hesitates as an unwelcome thought comes to him. “Wait—this doesn’t make you the Archduke of Ifreann, does it?”

His brother shakes his head. “No, thank God. My titles had already been stripped when I was first charged with treason. And even if they hadn’t, Lucifer was executed for the same crime. Any claim through him is now invalid. The throne will pass to Amara’s remaining kin. Lilith, probably.”

Dean sucks at his teeth, his tongue is thick and sore from lack of sleep, but the slight ache helps keep him awake. “No second thoughts?” he asks, like poking at a still-healing wound. “No desire to rule an entire kingdom? That might have been your last chance.”

“A commonborn noble can’t hold any throne on their own,” Sam says warmly, like he knows exactly what Dean is getting at. “I’d have to marry again to keep one.”

“Then you’ll never _ever_ be a king,” he says immediately. _Stubbornly_. “How tragic.”

Sam laughs out loud this time, low and thin, and droops a little further into his arms. Dean initially takes the motion for swooning, overwhelmed as he must be—or simply contented exhaustion, like his own—but the flush is rising even higher in his brother’s cheeks now, not an embarrassed blush after all, and Dean quickly grows concerned, given the past day and night.

“When’s the last time you ate, Sam?” he asks sternly.

“…Two days, I think?” his brother guesses in slightly slurred tones, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. He slips a little heavier, letting Dean take the majority of his considerable weight. “No, wait. Lafitte brought me bread.”

“Jesus.”

Sam stirs in his arms, pressing his heated forehead against Dean’s skin as if he’s seeking out even the slightest bit of coolness. “I’m fine,” he mumbles into his neck, and Dean can feel the vibrations of the words more than hear them. “I’ll head down to the kitchens a little later.”

Dean can’t help the small chuckle that escapes him at the naïve imagining. “You’re royalty now, little brother,” he says in gentle amusement. “If the scullery wenches saw you rummaging around the kitchens for your own meals they’d likely faint.”

“I’d hate to undermine my masculinity in your eyes,” Sam tosses back with a mild, self-deprecating sort of humor, “but I might, as well.”

“Fuck. Sorry.” Dean immediately drags Sam the few feet to the bed, setting him down on the large, cushioned trunk pressed up against the footboard. “We need to get some food in you,” he says to himself, wrapping up Sam’s, oddly still-freezing, hands in his own, “and get you warmed up.” Dean chews at his lip as he glances back at the main doors. “The servants will bring you something. Anything you ask.” He turns back to face his brother with a regretful look. “But they can’t think I’m in here. I’m sorry Sammy, but you’re going to have to do it yourself. Can you manage it?”

Sam chokes on an amused scoff. “Ordering servants to run around and do my bidding?” he asks dryly. “While I’m sure a task like that will require a _massive_ expenditure of energy, I think I can handle it.”

“When you call for them, ask them for food and to prepare a bathtub in here,” Dean continues, ignoring his brother’s sarcasm, sorely missed though it was. “But tell them to leave you be for the actual bathing. It’s the only way I can come back in.”

“Dean, I said I could handle it.”

“Food _first_ , Sam,” he orders firmly.

His brother waves him away with a weak flap of his wrist and Dean reluctantly allows his feet to drag him back to his own rooms, pressing up against their secret door and waiting a torturous eternity for conversation to be exchanged in the next room over. There’s a brief bit of silence as Sam waits for the servants’ return, but Dean still can’t re-enter for risk of being seen. Finally, there’s commotion on the other side of the wall. A bustle of footsteps and some more muffled voices herald the large metallic scraping of what must be the tub being dragged inside. A few additional footsteps cross back and forth over the threshold as the buckets are set down and eventually emptied, and then more silence.

Dean waits a few more moments, erring on the side of caution, until there’s the shockingly loud smack of something heavy hitting the wall, right where his ear is pressed. He swings the door open carefully to peer inside, but Sam is sitting on the trunk still, all alone on the other side of the room. When he glances down, an expensive silver candelabra is lying at his feet, its candles broken and scattered from the impact.

“You can come in now,” Sam says belatedly, his voice laced with that humorous kind of mild delirium that stems from exhaustion or illness. Or _both_ in his brother’s case, apparently. He shrugs when Dean raises his eyebrows at the candelabra. “I didn’t want to get up.”

Dean curtails a smile at his brother’s ridiculously adorable solution, then strips off his doublet before he’s even crossed the room, skirting around the large bathtub to toss his jacket onto the empty bed. “ _Eat_ ,” he says, gesturing to the steaming bowl at Sam’s hip. It appears to be some sort of rabbit stew, but the broth looks thin enough that it shouldn’t upset his stomach. “The water will have cooled enough by the time you’re done.”

Sam obeys his order with barely a sigh, and that’s how Dean _knows_ his brother is sick. Though he does roll his eyes at Dean around the spoon in his mouth, so at least he’s clearly still the same deep down where it counts. “Mother hen,” Sam mumbles quietly, and Dean can’t help but grin at it.

He rolls his own shirtsleeves up, then gets to removing Sam’s clothing, working around his brother who can only give him one arm at a time without spilling his soup all over his lap. Dean finally gets him undressed just as he finishes his meal, leaving the bowl bare in a way Sam rarely does, and it twinges something inside of him to see it. _It doesn’t matter_ —Dean reminds himself. He’s going to make sure his brother is stuffed full with any foods he could possibly desire until he’s hale again. Once he’s done with him, Sam will look like he’s never wanted for anything in his entire life.

Sam stands to make his stumbling, ungainly way to the bathtub, one arm over Dean’s shoulder for support, and then collapses into the warm water with a drawn-out groan. He shifts a little under Dean’s gaze, his bony knees sticking clear out of the water and arranged as if to preserve his modesty. As if they haven’t seen each other in every single state of undress and vulnerability that exists. But still, Dean doesn’t allow the reticence to ruin the moment, and Sam lets out a stifled laugh when he drops an entire bar of soap into the tub with a contained splash.

“Yes, alright,” he concedes humorously. “I guess I need that.”

“Just think,” Dean quips lightly in response, “you might actually have skin under all that mud.”

Sam laughs again, finally relaxing enough to rest his knee against Dean’s shoulder as the water slowly turns as cloudy and grey as the sky outside. It’s the same leg his brother had winced at earlier, and Dean delivers a careful massage to the abused limb, drinking in every tiny sound of pleasure Sam makes in grateful response. The steam rising from the tub inevitably thickens the air between them, but he privately thinks that his brother looks beautiful through the haze. Like an ephebe from a Grecian bathhouse. Young and healthy and _his_.

Dean pulls one of Sam’s hands out of the water—overcome with not only the sudden urge for affection, but the joy at being able to enact it—and playfully nips at the wrinkled fingertips. “It’s really the height of rudeness to allow a king to bathe you like this,” he teases softly. “Haven’t you taken any etiquette lessons?”

“Technically, I took _your_ etiquette lessons,” Sam says, eyes closed as he leans his head back against the rim of the too-small tub. “You used to make me pretend to be a visiting dignitary so you could practice.” Dean smiles. He remembers that.

His fingers move on from Sam’s hand to his wrist, gently caressing the delicate joint for as long as he likes, and then travel up the length of his brother’s arm to clutch at his bicep, then his shoulder, smoothing over firm muscle and soft, damp skin. Sam tilts into his touch as Dean slips his palm around the back of his neck, silently pulling him in for another kiss as his right hand dips below the water to flirt up the length of his thigh.

Sam sighs into his mouth with every caress, sucking at Dean’s lips and tongue like he’s trying to memorize the taste and feel of him. Dean leans in even further, doing everything he can to facilitate his brother’s desires, his fingers tickling over soft hair to slowly, tentatively brush at the vertex of his thighs—when Sam stiffens in his arms, letting out a pained hiss and pulling away so suddenly there’s a splash of bathwater over the rim and onto the chamber floor. Dean can do nothing but stare, frozen in place, terrified that he’s somehow hurt his brother. Again.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers, looking like he needs to get the words out even as he hates himself for it, “still a bit sore.”

Dean’s heart crumples in on itself, every reminder of the horrors his brother had to go through crushing over him like a dark wave, and he’s suddenly drowning in the bleak riptide. His eyes burn hot, despite him, weakness biting at his sinuses and the back of his throat as he fights to pull himself together.

“Don’t,” Sam says mournfully. “Please don’t.”

But Dean can’t stop himself from breaking, giving voice to the dread eating away at his insides. “How can you even bring yourself to let me touch you?” he asks quietly, his voice wracked with misery.

Sam’s eyebrows draw down in bewildered confusion until he eventually catches Dean’s meaning, and then he lets out another sigh. “You stupid, stupid man,” he breathes sadly. “Stop blaming yourself. You didn’t do any of this. _I_ did.” He reaches out for him, arms open and imploring, and Dean goes embarrassingly easily, wrapping his own around Sam’s waist and pressing his face to his brother’s chest. He’s getting water everywhere, his shirt soaked completely through as he clings to Sam, as if he was small enough to climb into the stupidly undersized bathtub with him. “It’s my fault, Dean,” Sam whispers against his temple, “and I’m so sorry. I will never stop being sorry.” Dean just blinks away warm, wet tears, hoping beyond hope that his brother will mistake them for bathwater, and Sam cups the back of his head in return, his long, elegant fingers playing over the shorn hair at the nape of Dean’s neck.

Dean grits his teeth and fights back the feeling of loss, digging his fingers into his brother’s back like he’ll never let go.

Sam just holds him there, an accommodating, devoted Pietà, throughout it all.

 


	18. Stream

Dean finds him at their stream, soaking up every bit of sunshine he can get between the slowly drifting clouds. It’s been several weeks since he’d broken free from his horrid exile, and he’s never been happier to be home, but Sam still finds that this is the most peaceful place for him to think. Outside the castle walls. Away from his newfound responsibilities. Where he can look upon clear waters and pretend his life is still simple the way it used to be. Back when he and Dean could wile away an hour or two making love beneath the trees and no one would miss them.

“Guess what they’re calling me now,” Dean chimes brightly—no ‘hello’ whatsoever—simply starting mid-conversation and expecting him to follow.

Sam hums thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly rolls over to tug his brother down to meet him on the grassy bank. Dean falls onto his ass with a surprised chuckle, a willing prisoner as Sam impatiently works at the laces of his doublet, pretending to mull it over. “The most loved man in all the realm?” he guesses playfully.

“That would be you,” Dean says with a soft smile. He runs his fingers down Sam’s face for tender moment, then thumps his head back onto the ground with a whoosh of air. “The Bastard King,” he announces, almost proudly. “I’m strangely fond of it. What do you think?”

Sam huffs out a laugh as he struggles to get his brother’s vest open. “Does that make me the Bastard Prince then?”

“…I suppose it does,” Dean muses, complacent as he lets Sam paw at him. “Or perhaps, the _Incestuous_ Prince, intent on living in sin—are you quite done?”

Sam blows his bangs out of his face as he works on a particularly stubborn knot. “I haven’t seen you since noon, yesterday. You’re lucky I’m leaving your trousers on.”

“Hmm, don’t feel the need to hold back on my account,” his brother purrs with a suggestive lift of his brows.

“And how long do we have before your loyal subjects start clamoring for your return?”

Dean fixes him with a look that could melt stone as easily as butter. “Hours,” he says salaciously, and Sam blinks at the surprising bit of good news.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Sam lets the knowledge warm him, a self-satisfied smile flirting at his lips, and goes back to attacking his brother’s vestments.

“So,” Dean ventures after a quiet moment, punctuated only with Sam’s occasional grunts of frustration, “is there any particular reason you’re out here, hiding away from the world?”

“I’m not hiding,” Sam grumbles, finally tearing through the infuriating Gordian knot with his teeth. He’ll commission Dean a new doublet later. One with _buttons_.

His brother grins, tongue poking out over his bottom lip as Sam tosses his vest somewhere behind them. “There are only two people alive who know about this place Sammy,” he points out, “and they’re both present and accounted for.” Dean slips his arms behind his own head, basking like a lizard in the sunshine. “Something troubling you, little brother? Something so pernicious you needed to seek solace in a place this dear to your heart?”

“I only came here to watch the clouds,” Sam lies badly, mildly annoyed by how well his brother knows him. “What solace could my heart possibly find at some muddy old creek?”

Dean waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I first made love to you here.”

“So you keep mentioning.”

He chuckles at the dry response. “I also proposed to you here,” he says, warmth glowing from his face at the memory. But that day is still a bittersweet one in Sam’s book, and Dean switches tracks so smoothly anyone else wouldn’t even have noticed. “You, once,” he says fondly, “had to rescue me from a tree here. Do you remember?”

Sam snorts in nostalgic amusement. He was all of thirteen then, scrawny and slight, and he’d had to goad his much taller companion down from the branches with a freshly baked pie from the kitchens and a well-timed yank. “To this day, I cannot fathom how the fearless leader of our entire kingdom can be so utterly terrified of heights,” he says with a teasing smile.

His brother gives him a look like he’s the one being ridiculous. “Men were made to _walk_ , you lunatic, not fly.”

Sam frees him from his shirt in response, hoping that their trip down memory lane has distracted Dean from his original prodding. It seems to work, given the way Dean’s hands end up wandering into his hair. “And you?” Sam asks in sheer contentment, tilting his head into the gentle massage. “Trying to avoid your new advisor?” Although Bobby has always been the Winchester family’s _unofficial_ confidant, Missouri stepped up to fill Azazel’s vacancy by unanimous decision, and though Sam finds her blunt sort of candor surprisingly charming, Dean can’t seem to stand the fact that she isn’t above whacking him with kitchenware if he doesn’t pay her advice the proper respect.

“Lisa’s worried about the time I’ve been putting in at the council meetings these past few weeks,” Dean says grudgingly. “She thinks I’m working too hard.” He lets out a terse scoff at his own words, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “But if Ifreann could put such a sinister plot into motion, there could be other lands with other conspiracies currently in play. I’m simply looking out for Winchester’s future.”

“She worries because she loves you,” Sam says quietly, and Dean hums in possible accord. There’s no reason to press further, but he can’t stop himself from asking the infernal question already on the tip of his tongue. “Do you feel the same?”

Dean’s lips quirk up at the corner. “Perhaps,” he says enigmatically. “In a way. She did save your life.” That old fear slowly rises up again to choke Sam, and his hands suddenly lose all their deftness, fingers tangling together clumsily over his brother’s bare stomach. “Do you love the library?” Dean asks abruptly.

“I’m sorry?”

Dean grins at him. “Do you love the Royal Library?” he repeats slowly, like Sam is a particularly dim child. “Whenever you aren’t training on the field, I find you in there, nose shoved into some dusty tome or other. Bobby doesn’t even frequent the room as much as you do, and he’s being paid to lurk there.” He lets out an amused snort at his own sense of humor. “So I ask again, _Your Highness_. Do you love the library?”

“I—” Sam blinks in confusion. “I suppose. Yes.”

“And I love riding,” Dean continues blithely, fingers absent-mindedly trailing across the nape of Sam’s neck. “I love the hunt and steaming hot baths and Ellen’s cooking.” He tugs Sam down closer, a playful gleam in his eye. “Just as you love the joust, or those wild beasts behind the servant’s quarters that you keep tossing scraps to when you think I won’t notice.

“They’re just stray dogs,” Sam mumbles petulantly.

“ _Beasts_ ,” Dean corrects. “Mangy ones.” He ignores the roll of Sam’s eyes, and stretches out a hand to encompass the view before them. “You love this stream, Sam, as I do. But none of those things even come close to what lies between us. Or detracts from it. If you have to ask if you are first in my heart, then the only answer I can give you is _always_.” He tilts Sam’s chin up with a steady finger, cocksure smile and a glint of white teeth. “Just as I know that I am first in yours.”

Sam ducks away from the gentle touch, choosing instead to bury his face in Dean’s breast. “Lisa will bear you children one day,” he mumbles. “Soon, perhaps.”

Dean pauses at the change in subject. “Was that not always our goal?” he asks carefully. “The kingdom needs heirs.”

“You will love them first, then,” Sam whispers against his brother’s heartbeat. “As it should be. Perhaps, in time, you will grow to love their mother as well for giving them to you.”

The fingers dancing across his skin still, and Sam stews in apprehension before his brother eventually speaks again. “Our father never loved his queen,” Dean says. “Not in their entire marriage. He only had eyes for our mother. Bobby says only a fool wouldn’t have been able to see as much.” He shakes Sam a little, trying to rouse him from where he’s burrowed. “Do you think Mary suffered for having us?”

“It’s different,” Sam insists. “They will be _your_ children, Dean. Not mine.”

“Of course they will be yours,” his brother counters stubbornly, brooking no argument. “They will share the same blood—the same life-force running through your veins that runs in mine.” Dean tugs at his shoulders until Sam finally lifts his head to meet his eyes. “The very secret that burdened us will be what delivers us in this,” he says. “I have loathed every second since finding out that we could not be wed. But, Sammy,” Dean whispers gently, “think of our shared lineage as the gift it truly is. Any of my children will also be yours. The Winchester bloodline prevails through _us_.” He fixes him with a look so earnest, Sam can almost see his soul shining through his eyes. “And how could I feel anything less for something that is also a piece of you?”

Sam suddenly finds it very hard to swallow, his throat tight with emotion. “…You have a unique way of looking at the world,” he says, utterly charmed, “and far too clever a tongue.”

“Well, perhaps we can put it to better use,” Dean suggests wickedly, and just like that, the tender moment is over.

But Sam can’t let it go the way he usually does when Dean tries to slip away from romance like a wriggling eel. He places a firm hand on his shoulder, halting his brother’s advances. “Tell me you love me.”

Dean blinks in shock at the unexpected request, then rolls his head back against the bank with a sound of embarrassed indignation. “ _Sam_.”

“Please.”

The quiet desperation in his tone stops his brother short, and he sucks in a short breath. “Yes,” Dean says softly, “of course I do.” He reaches out to capture Sam’s palm in his own. “More than anyone else ever could.”

“Tell me you will love me always,” Sam pleads.

“Until the end of the very Earth itself,” Dean promises, pressing ardent kisses to the tips of Sam’s fingers, “and even after.”

The heartfelt words soothe Sam’s soul, but the merest flicker of jealousy still resides in his breast. The way it has since the very first morning Lisa stepped onto their shores. “I still wish this was mine,” he whispers ruefully, tracing his fingers over his brother’s wedding ring

Dean lets out a soft sound of amusement. “You have all the rest of me. I would think that an entire king, minus one finger, is a fair enough trade.” He pulls Sam closer with a wicked grin. “You have my lips,” he says, punctuating the statement with a quick kiss, “and my words. You have my cock.” That one is underscored with a playfully adamant thrust of his hips.

“Lisa sometimes has your cock.”

“You have my heart, then,” Dean clarifies without missing a beat. “You have my mind. You even have my complete and utter disdain for those terrible weepy ballads you insist on making the bards play.” He slides his hands under the silk of the simple shirt Sam prefers to wear, still not used to the trappings of royalty, and rests his palms warm against his belly. “But I suppose you’re right,” his brother says amiably. “We should be fair about this. Since you own every part of me except for the third finger of my left hand, I give you _royal permission_ ,” Sam rolls his eyes again, “to choose something of yourself that does not belong to me.” Dean raises up a finger in warning. “Only _one_ part, mind you. The rest is rightfully mine.”

Sam chews at the inside of his cheek, a mischievous whisper goading him to test the waters. “And if I said my cock?”

Dean presses a hand to his breast in playful horror. “I would be inconsolably morose. I might even collapse outside your chamber doors and waste away like one of the heroes from those tragic ballads you love so much.”

He can’t help but smile at Dean’s particular brand of melodrama. “If I said my ass?”

Dean pretends to ponder the hypothetical. “I would start a war with the next kingdom over.”

Sam snorts at his brother’s dramatics. “Over my ass?” he says dryly.

“They say Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships. I would think your backside could at least merit a small territory scuffle.”

Sam lets out a laugh as he thinks it over, then hums in contemplation. “One hour of my time,” he says eventually.

Dean does an overwhelmingly terrible job at covering his hurt. “You wish me to leave you alone for a certain period each day?”

“No,” Sam says with a sly smile. “If I own everything of you, as you said earlier, then it stands to reason that you own everything of me, correct? Which means that me reclaiming an hour of _my_ time is actually me gaining an hour of _your_ time.”

“Oh, Lord,” Dean grumbles to the sky in general, “I’m in love with a barrister. It’s all those damned books of yours.”

“I want one, uninterrupted hour of daylight with you, seven times a week.”

“You see me more than that already.”

“ _Uninterrupted_ ,” Sam presses. “No advisors, no council meetings, no wives.”

Dean rolls his lips between his teeth as he drags out his answer. There’s no point, really. Sam knows what he’s going to say. “I _suppose_ ,” he starts, overly graciously, “I _might_ be able to tear myself away. But it will surely be a _huge_ sacrifice on my part.” He suddenly lunges, yanking Sam’s arms up over their heads so they’re both flush, chest-to-chest. “What will you do for me in return?”

Sam dips his head down slowly, letting his breath graze over the shell of Dean’s ear. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” he flirts right back. And then Dean locks his legs around the backs of Sam’s calves and surges up to press their mouths together.

The heated kiss sends a bright, tingling spark racing through Sam that travels all the way up to the tips of his fingers. _This_ is how it’s supposed to be. Them. He and Dean, together as one. Tangled around each other like snake vines and grazing each others’ souls through the slide of their tongues.

He pulls away just long enough to wrangle his brother’s trousers down around his boots, trying not to feel like some green adolescent when he can’t resist brushing a reverent hand over Dean’s hardening cock. Dean remains entirely still, gazing up at him with every bit of crackling lust his body can drum up, but unwilling to make any sudden moves. It’s unnecessary. Sam would never— _could_ never—believe his brother capable of the brutalities Lucifer had enacted on him. Dean could wrench his hands behind his back, stripe his ass raw, and dig his teeth into his neck, and Sam would only thank him for it.

Still, he focuses on shimmying out of his own clothing rather than get all choked-up dwelling on his brother’s attentive consideration.

Dean, for his part, leaves his arms stretched out languidly above his head, offering his body up for Sam to do what he will with it. For him to wring out every bit of pleasure he’s got to give. Malleable and gorgeous and Sam’s for the taking.

And take he does.

They don’t have any oil—this impromptu little rendezvous was anything but planned on Sam’s part, and Dean was probably just figuring on a few quick tugs to ease their frustrations—but Sam needs more. The same way he has every single time since he’s been back. Needs to have Dean snugged up inside him. Needs to feel the heat and power of his brother’s body.

Sam tips Dean’s blood-thick length Heavenwards and lines himself up dry, the sun beating down on the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades.

“Careful,” Dean hisses. “Slow.”

Sam can’t hold back the affectionate smirk at his brother’s obvious concern. “You’re acting like we’ve never done this before.”

“Just be fucking careful, Sam. Christ.”

He sinks down slowly, ever so slowly, on Dean’s stiff cock. Their skin catching and dragging deliciously with every shallow inhale. God, Dean feels huge like this—like he’s going to split him in two—and the slight, accompanying whisper of pain can’t even begin to dampen Sam’s ardor.

“Are you alright?” His brother’s voice is breathy, strained with the sheer force of everything he’s holding back. His arms trembling with want as he keeps them extended over his head. Selene driving back the ocean tide with only her silver chariot and the strength of her will. Although, that scenario probably makes _him_ Endymion. Like he’s only truly awake when Dean is here beside him.

Sam bites at his lip and nods fiercely, his heart abruptly swelling with devotion. “I’m perfect,” he rasps out. He finally gets settled flush against the cradle of Dean’s hips, his brother spearing straight through his core, and has to muffle a groan at the feel of it—so sublime it’s almost excruciating.

Dean lets out a strangled noise, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth like the slight threat of pain is the only thing keeping him in check. “Take your time,” he wheezes roughly. “Proceed at your leisure.”

Sam laughs again at his brother’s strained generosity and immediately begins to rock their hips together.

They move as one in the dappled, afternoon sunlight; short, shallow thrusts that get their breath hitching with every movement. Sam’s fingers slowly creep up to wrap around Dean’s wrists, pressing him firmly down to the grass as he takes his pleasure shamelessly. As he zealously draws every lightning flash from his brother’s exposed nerves up Dean’s throbbing cock and into his own body. He doesn’t bite, doesn’t claw, doesn’t nip across Dean’s collarbones and scrape over his taut nipples the way he usually does when they’re like this. This isn’t about quick and dirty hedonism; naughty, impish moments of sin stolen behind others’ backs before they’re caught out. It’s worship. It’s gratitude expressed in tender, sucking kisses and the clench of his inner walls. This is how he feels for Dean. This is how he wants his brother to think of him in turn. This is them, joined. United. _One_.

This is their love.

Sam comes, slow and languid, under the everlasting protection of the trees. A long, drawn-out shiver that travels from his pulsing cock to the roots of his hair. Leaving him electrified. Leaving him gasping. Leaving him exquisitely sated and slumped over his brother’s torso as Dean groans and shakes underneath him, filling him with the seed of their creation.

They remain there for an eternity. One pure moment of perfection. Then Sam drags himself off of Dean, too quickly really, his brother’s softening cock tugging at already sore skin, but Sam’s grin is no less sincere as he settles down beside him.

“Oaf,” he says fondly. It means _I can’t be without you_.

“Wench,” Dean tosses back in automatic response. And it means _I love you even more than that_.

Sam rolls onto his back, dimples permanently etched onto his face as he takes in the fluffy clouds making shapes overhead. Dean’s pressed up firm against his right shoulder, one long, warm line all the way down his arm where the backs of their hands touch. Sam watches as what looks like a rabbit slowly crashes into a breaching whale, and then the entire amorphous picture shifts into something resembling a soup tureen.

“Do you regret it?” Sam asks after a few peaceful moments. “Not marrying when we had the chance?”

Dean lets out a sigh and turns his head to press a light kiss to Sam’s shoulder. “The truth would have come out eventually,” he admits grudgingly. “One way or another. If not Lucifer, then someone else. I fear that if we had wed, we’d both be six feet under by now.”

“ _I_ fear that becoming king has made you wise.”

Dean snorts under his breath. “Perish the thought.” He absent-mindedly rubs his lips over the skin of Sam’s shoulder, their conversation having taken a turn for the serious. “I fear that your ordeal with the _Scum of Ifreann_ ,” he practically hisses the sobriquet through his teeth, “has made you selfless.”

“A dangerous thing in this world, indeed,” Sam agrees. “…But not _so_ selfless,” he says after a moment. “I admit I still think about it sometimes. Us running away together. Abandoning your wife, the kingdom, our people, all to spend our lives undisturbed at the fringes of the forest. Very selfish and very happy.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean requests softly, and he can hear the smile in his voice.

“We could elope. No one would know who we were, so no one would stop us. You’d be my husband,” Sam says, capturing his brother’s hand in his own, “and I’d be yours.” Dean squeezes tight at the words. “And we’d live like the common folk. I think we would probably have a little, wooden cottage and one of those mangy dogs you claim to hate. I could grow vegetables in our garden. You could hunt for our meat. And for coin, maybe we would be…” Sam squints as he mulls it over, “…blacksmiths.”

His brother huffs out a breath of laughter through his nose. “You’d make more money as a scholar.”

“No, I wouldn’t charge for that. We could teach all the nearby children to read and write during the evenings.”

“I hope that’s not _all_ we’d be doing with our evenings.”

“ _You_ could be a scholar,” Sam continues playfully, ignoring his brother’s ham-fisted innuendo. “Offer lessons for money if you wanted. But _I_ wouldn’t, and so all of the children would come to me instead. You’d be very unpopular.”

Dean chuckles at the ongoing nature of the fantasy. “You’d have to be a very successful blacksmith,” he says, playing along, “to earn all of our coin as well as teach for free in the evenings.”

Sam’s brows draw down. “ _All_ of our coin?” he echoes teasingly. “I thought you were blacksmithing with me?”

“Nope,” his brother says cheerfully. “I wouldn’t work at all. I’d just laze about our cottage all day long. You know,” he adds, tongue firmly in cheek, “when I wasn’t unsuccessfully charging for reading lessons, that is.” Their laughter eventually fades into contented calm once more, and then into sincerity again. Dean runs his knuckles over one of Sam’s sideburns, then trails his hand down to thumb at the cleft of his chin. “Do you truly want that?” he asks gently, solemnity slipping back into his tone.

“…No,” Sam sighs after a moment of contemplation, rolling his head back to meet his brother’s gaze. “The kingdom needs you. And I am far too wary to tempt fate with my desires again, lest I want for too much.” He tries to bite at his tongue, to curb the unnecessary question tugging at his mind, but eventually can’t help but press. “Would you, though? If I asked?”

Dean’s eyes are warm. “Yes,” he says honestly. Without a single moment of hesitation or doubt. “In an _instant_.”

Sam smiles at the faithful vow, every part of him quietly overflowing with joy, and leans in again to capture his king’s lips in a gentle kiss. “Then I will never, _ever_ ask.”

 


	19. Epilogue

Once upon a time…there was a proud and prosperous kingdom. And this kingdom was ruled by a wise king, a virtuous queen, and a selfless prince. King Dean of Winchester was known throughout the lands, not only for his cleverness in routing out several wicked spirits within his own court, but also for bravely facing a member of Hell’s own demonic legion and ridding him from the Earth. Such noble deeds were only eclipsed by tales of his queen, whose purity of heart had allowed her to sense the demon’s dark magic in the first place—and many came from the farthest realms to receive Queen Lisa’s personal benediction in the following years. Samuel, the prince of Winchester—only discovered as such _during_ that same horrific ordeal—was well-regarded for his altruism and fortitude. None forgot his incredible ability to buck the reins of a demon’s command, his faith and loyalty to his kingdom giving him the strength of character needed to turn away the darkness and seek the light once more.

All three rulers led their people brilliantly, continuing the long and glorious age of harmony and good fortune that the preceding king had established. And as any wise man could tell you, peace is so much harder to maintain once people have begun to grow hazy in their memories of war. But the king, the queen, and the prince never grew apathetic in regards to their people’s well-being, always keeping a discerning ear open to their subjects’ opinions and a finger on the pulse of the common folk.

In fact, once a year, the king and the prince would take a week-long vacation to visit one of the many neighboring villages. They’d dress down, of course, to blend in with the locals, living in a small cottage the entire time and pretending they were simply part of the ordinary crowd. The king always deemed it necessary, if prodded, as he’d insist that they could only get a true feel for the morale of their people if they were unrecognizable. And it would work, surprisingly enough. The brothers would always return from their holiday, well-rested and glowing, with a full slate of new ideas to better the kingdom. And the prince would always smile knowingly and blush a little, if asked where they’d gotten the brilliant idea from, simply stating that the king was very wise and that was that.

In time there would be children. In time there would be laughter. In time there would be moments of anger, and sorrow, and conflict—as there always are.

But for now, at the end of our tale, all I can tell you is that they all lived happily ever after.

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And if, perhaps, there was still a secret door linking the king’s bedroom to the adjoining chamber—

And if, perhaps, that aforementioned chamber just so happened to belong to his brother, the prince—

And if, perhaps, the king seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in that second room, with certain servants swearing up and down that they sometimes thought they saw His Majesty sneaking back into his _own_ bed in the shadows of the early morning—

Well…history will never have to know.

 

 

 

 

The End.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from King Crimson’s "The Court of the Crimson King"
> 
> "Neamh" and "Ifreann" are the Gaelic terms for Heaven and Hell, respectively.


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